


Always a Different Gender

by Salamon2



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Additional Characters to be added, Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Butterfly Effect, Chaos Theory, Drabble Collection, F/M, Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:25:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salamon2/pseuds/Salamon2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on a thread on Alternatehistory.com which challenged us to imagine different characters as their opposite gender. Here are a collection of a few of my summary attempts turned into stories, written in a drabble format to give a taste of what such a world might be like. The rating is mostly for chapters to come.</p><p>Chapter Six, Daemon Targaryen, raised by his cousin Stannis, dreads the meeting that he's feared for most of his life.</p><p>Chapter Seven, Jonelle Snow fights against a storm to find her little brother.</p><p>Chapter Eight: Lollar Stokeworth drinks with his brother of the battlefield, Bronn.</p><p>Chapter Nine: Robert Baratheon is born with a Targaryen ability most thought long gone, one in which upon having their first sexual encounter, the Targaryens reflect their dragons and are able to shift between male and female at will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lyam Stark

**Author's Note:**

> The only person who was born a different gender in each chapter, is the person listed as the chapter title. Everyone else is still born the same, unless butterflies have changed them. For the most part I've tried to pick names or invent names that are as close to that person's actual name, but of the opposing gender of course. I've also made the decision that whatever a person's pleasure was as one gender, will be their pleasure as the opposite gender, with distinctions only being made for the change in gender. This means someone who might be polyamorous is still polyamorous. Likewise if a character was heterosexual or homosexual originally, then they still are as the opposite gender, with myself only taking into account that they are an opposite gender. As such a male version of a heterosexual female character will change to liking women as a heterosexual man, and a female version of a homosexual male character will change to liking women as a homosexual woman--just to use a few examples.
> 
> These drabbles are only meant to be a taste of what such a world might be like, I do hope you enjoy them as I had a lot of fun imagining them. I don't imagine this will get updated often (knocks on wood) but when I do have something for this, I'll post to it.
> 
> But anyway, enough notes. On with the drabbles!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter One, Lyam Stark returns to the North after many years of living in Essos, hoping to bring some justice to his family name.

**LYAM STARK**

 

He had forgotten how cold the North was. In all his time in Essos and Vaes Dothraki he had suffered through the heat of the Dothraki Sea, but now for the first time in his three and thirty namedays—was that how old he was? It sounded right, but he might have missed one or two out on the grassy sea—he wanted to complain about how damned cold it was. But then again, it had been a while since he’d experienced a Northern winter. Still, he wouldn’t say his complaints out loud—not with Ned riding next to him and likely to hear. His son, whom he had named in honor of the brother he had missed the most while traveling Essos, rode on his mount, Vershiqeth—or Grey Wolf as it meant in the common tongue—that his Dothraki uncle had given him as a child saying that he would be a man when he taught the horse to listen to him. Ned was bundled up as any man who’d grown up in dry and warm Essos did upon visiting the North. Dressed to the hilt in furs, he almost looked like a Wildling. It was only his son’s long uncut braid which distinguished himself as anything but—the only trace of his mother’s Dothraki heritage that Ned had been unwilling to part with when they had readied to sail at Braavos.

 

With an easy smirk, Lyam looked to his boy who looked almost exactly like the brother he was named for and teased, “And this is the southernmost part of the North,” he said as he guided his horse along the causeway through the muck and mire that made up the Neck.

 

“When will we arrive at Greywater watch?” asked Ned pointedly, the boy had always been direct and to the point, even when telling him stories of Winterfell he had been loathe to have his father deviate from the point of the story.

 

“Getting to Greywater Watch is not a question of when, for it’ll be when the Old Gods see to deem it appropriate.”

 

His son scowled just in the way that his brother used to and Lyam for a moment could imagine that he was not riding with his son, but instead his brother. His brother who no longer lived…

 

_Gods forgive me Ned… Father… Brandon… I didn’t know._

 

Lyam’s reverie was disturbed by an arrow which was shot into the trunk of a tree near them, obviously meant to catch their attention. The crannogmen had noticed their arrive, thank the gods, Lyam was growing tired of trudging up and down the causeway. Lyam calmed his disturbed grey and white stallion, Winter, and gave Ned a knowing look, who did much the same with Vershiqeth.

 

“In the name of the Starks, we come seeking the lord of House Reed of the Neck,” called out Lyam.

 

Nothing beyond the croaking of frogs and the buzzing of insects were heard for the next few moments until suddenly Lyam was taken aback by the arrival of a pronged spear at his side by a small crannog woman. She had long brown hair done kept only to her shoulders and distinctive green eyes. Green eyes that Lyam knew he recognized before noticing the faded lizard lion symbol on her tough-skinned vest. Ned went to draw his sword, but Lyam motioned for him to stop—and right he was for the next second his son barely ducked a blow dart that had been aimed at him.

 

“In the name of which Stark?” asked the crannog woman, pressing the pronged spear closer to his body.

 

Lyam met her familiar green eyes and with a dark tone to his voice he said, “In the name of my father, Lord Rickard. May the Others take the Boltons for flaying him.”

 

The pronged spear did not lower immediately until a boy not much younger than Ned, who shared his appearance with the woman and thus looked almost exactly like Howland had at Harrenhal all those years ago, stepped out from the mists of the bog and put a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

 

The boy said, “Put it down, Meera, they’re safe.”

 

Hesitatingly the young woman named Meera did as she was asked and Lyam gave the boy a respectful nod while querying, “You’re Howland’s son, aren’t you?”

 

“Aye. My name is Jojen and this is my sister Meera. We have been expecting you Ser Stark, though we did not know you weren’t alone,” explained the boy oddly.

 

_Ser Stark… I haven’t heard that title in a long while… definitely Howland’s boy._

 

Lyam replied tactfully, “Well, it appears that you know who I am. The young man with an overly serious countenance is my son, Ned… Odd how our arrival has been expected, given that I have not said a word of it to any but two persons—one of which is with me.”

 

_And Drogo would hardly care where I went—even if I did marry his sister._

 

“We have much to discuss Ser Stark, but doing so on the causeway is not wise—especially in these days. Follow me and step where I step. We’ll have to take the long way through the bogs, but it will be the safest way for your horses,” explained Howland’s boy.

 

As they walked off the causeway, they were joined by a few men dressed in tunics denoting houses of the Neck, one of which with a blow dart reed eyed Ned suspiciously as they walked. The trek through the marsh and misty bogs took enough time, with Ned growing distracted several times by a floating light that Meera was more than happy to knock some sense into him about even thinking of following.

 

“Whysps. They’re the real bog devils. The pesky things trick you into following them, and soon you’re stepping into a sink pit or are some lizard lion’s meal,” commented Meera to Ned, who grunted in return.

 

Long after night had fallen they arrived at a large body of open water amongst the swamp that the mist was the thickest around. Once at the shore, Jojen held his hands up to his mouth and gave an animal call out into the mists—a call which was repeated back to them from a distance not too far away. They then waited and Lyam heard something moving through the water as eventually a string of lights began to appear in the mists which grew brighter as they came closer. Soon Lyam was able to make out a large wooden hut with a thatched roof floating on the water towards them. All around the hut was a wooden palisade from which torches were attached. Soon the hut was close enough that a gangway was brought out and lowered so that the hut could be accessible to the shore. When the hut had made landfall Lyam and Ned were greeted by the sight of an older man with a long bushy brown beard wearing a lizard lion leather vest and breeches, and whose green eyes twinkled with delight upon seeing Lyam.

 

“It is so good to see you, my old friend,” said Howland as he embraced Lyam in a warm but friendly hug.

 

“Aye, and you as well,” replied Lyam.

 

Howland then pulled back from the embrace and a sad look crossed his face as he said, “You’ve been gone for too long, Lyam… far too long. I have a surprise for you though, which you will appreciate.”

 

_A surprise?_

 

But Lyam did not have to wonder long. He was invited into House Reed’s crannog with its interweaving hazel stick walls called hurdles giving a thin but noted separation between rooms inside of the crannog. Howland did not lie when he said he might appreciate it, sitting around a central hearth, bundled up together were a boy and a girl, close in age, and each barely ten namedays from what Lyam could surmise. They looked up as Lyam entered the room, their grey eyes locking onto his and Ned’s, and Lyam felt his legs almost give out beneath him. Stark grey eyes, long faces, brown hair… it all was there.

 

_Impossible… they should be dead!_

 

But he could not deny what he saw before him… they were Ned’s boy and girl, Lyam and Arya, the true heirs to the Eyrie and the Vale, some might have said, but Lyam cared not, for all he cared was that some part of Ned lived on… he and his wife Annalys may have been killed by the assassins that the Gulltown Arryns had hired, but here, in this crannog, he lived on through his son and daughter... Lyam saw it in their eyes.

 

“Hello…” said the boy who obviously was his nephew named for him.

 

“H—hello,” repeated Lyam weakly, still too overwhelmed by the sight before him to be able to speak decently.

 

“You’re our uncle, aren’t you?” asked the girl boldly as she stood up and crossed to Lyam, eyeing him as suspiciously as Ned always had whenever Lyam had been plotting to pull some prank on Brandon.

 

“Aye, I am…” replied Lyam, to which she replied with a firm hug, which Lyam embraced fully. When his niece had had enough she pulled back from him and then turning to Ned, asked, “And who are you?”

 

“This is my son, Ned… Ned… these are your cousins… Arya and Lyam…” answered Lyam.

 

“You know our names?” asked the boy as he stood up, though did not approach.

 

“Aye… after I had heard you might have escaped to Braavos, I tried to find out everything I could about you both, to find you…” answered Lyam to the boy who was his namesake.

 

“You heard, but you did not come,” answered the boy, who gave Lyam almost the exact look Ned had given him upon catching him in bed with that servant girl nigh twenty namedays ago—that same disappointed, hurt, and sad look that Lyam could not for the world endure. His nephew then retreated to one of the smaller rooms off of the central room and slammed his stick woven door shut with as much force as he could. Arya however stayed close to Lyam’s side and embraced her cousin Ned in much the same manner that Lyam had received—which was slightly uncomfortable to his son, Lyam considered, but the discomfort seemed to ease as Arya invited Ned to the hearth so that they could play a game together. It was then that Howland, who had remained outside of the crannog entered his own home and patted him on the back.

 

“Give the boy time…”

 

“Did he see them die?” asked Lyam

 

“He was hardly older than a babe, but if he did, then he has not told me about it,” replied Howland.

 

Lyam admitted quietly to Howland one of his two worst fears, “Sometimes I wonder if I had only stayed and joined the Kingsguard like the King wanted, if all this might have been avoided…”

 

It had been a trap of an offer, made after his discovery as the Knight of the Laughing Tree. Initially Lyam had entered as a mystery knight in the Tournament of Harrenhal only to compete against Brandon and earn some justice for Howland at Benjen’s insistence, but after beating Brandon he’d felt so giddy, and so full of himself he thought he could take on the rest of the lists. Ser Barristan had shown him otherwise, knocking him from his horse, and his anonymity along with it as his helmet had gone flying. The King had later had him dragged before him with the offer of joining his Kingsguard. Luckily Lyam had the ability to think on his feet and had respectfully declined, saying that he was not fit for such an honor, being that he was too young and that he was no knight. Aerys’ smile then had twisted cruelly across his face as he agreed with Lyam, but insisted that some suitable _reward_ for his actions needed to take place. And so Lyam had been knighted upon the King’s command by Ser Barristan, with the King promising that they would speak again soon, when he became a man grown. The King’s intentions had not been left in any doubt, Lyam would join the Kingsguard whether he wanted to or not. Damn whether his father had arranged an odious marriage to Barbrey Ryswell, damn his own thoughts and feelings on the matter. The King wanted him and he was marking his territory to have him. And that, more than anything had led Lyam to take his prized stallion Winter’s Wind and ride for White Harbor a few days shy of his six and ten nameday. He had wanted to choose his own destiny, to be free like his grandfather Rodrik had been. But then Aerys, from what he had heard, had declared that his family had let him escape and declared them all traitors beginning that bloody rebellion.

 

“Such questions are best left unanswered, my friend,” warned Howland, and Lyam knew deep down that he was right. Down that path of should haves and could haves was an unending forest of questions that one could lose their way in if they dwelt there for too long.

 

Lyam asked “Do the Boltons still have Brandon’s girl?”

 

“Aye… Roose married Sansa to his boy Domeric,” answered Howland calmly.

 

_And he flayed her father, mother, both of her grandfathers, her uncle, and her two brothers and turned them into a fine dress for her to wear…_

 

The singers in Braavos had been eager to tell of the death of the Starks—for a piece of gold of course. Though how much was true about the “Pale Wedding” as it was being called now, Lyam tried to have doubts.

 

“We need to save her, Howland,” urged Lyam pointedly.

 

_Before she quickens with Domeric’s child… I’ll not suffer some flayed spawn of Bolton’s sit upon father’s throne… I owe Brandon and the North that much at least…_

 

Howland sighed and is said in his quiet but confident voice, “We will.”

 

“Aye, the pack will reunite…and woe to our enemies when we do,” added Lyam quietly, watching as Ned and Arya played their game of colored pebbles. In the girl’s smile Lyam saw his mother once more and he thanked the Gods once again that she and Lyam were alive—even if the boy did dislike him. Together they would go North, free their cousin Sansa, kill House Bolton and restore House Stark to its rightful place. The Gulltown Arryns would have their turn, House Darry would eventually be overturned so that one of Sansa’s children could return to the Riverlands from which her Tully family had been driven out during the rebellion, and Lyam would see the Mad King and his crazed grandson who took after him upon spikes before he’d let them rule the Seven bloody Kingdoms. They would all get back what was owed to them by sticking together, of that Lyam was sure. What was it father had always said?

 

_The lone wolf dies but the pack survives—something like that…_

 

Again, Lyam turned his eyes to observe Ned and Arya. Arya by this point had grown quite tired and began to have her eyes droop with exhaustion. Eventually this ended with her cuddling up against Ned, who looked over to Lyam worriedly, unsure of what to do. Lyam smirked, rose, and picked up his little niece, carrying her into a side chamber that Howland had indicated was hers. Lyam laid his niece out across the bed and pulled a blanket over Arya. After putting her to bed, Lyam checked on his namesake to find the little boy likewise asleep, though he was curled up on his side facing away from the door.

 

_I will protect them Ned… I promise you that. I promise…_

 

And although he knew it was futile to make such a promise to the dead, Lyam thought that mayhaps this one would work out for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STARK FAMILY TREE OF THIS TIME LINE
> 
> Rickard STARK  
> m. Lyarra STARK
> 
> -Brandon STARK  
> -m. Catelyn TULLY  
> \--Cregan STARK (original time line Robb)  
> \--Sansa STARK  
> \--m. Domeric BOLTON  
> \--Rickon STARK
> 
> -Eddard STARK  
> -m. Annalys Waynwood  
> \--Lyam Stark (original time line Brandon)  
> \--Arya Stark
> 
> -Lyam STARK  
> -s.r. Ega  
> \--Ned (original time line Jon Snow)
> 
> -Benjen STARK


	2. Caesar Lannister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Two, Caesar Lannister reflects on his life the day of his eldest trueborn son's first tournament.

**CAESAR LANNISTER**  
  
Caesar absolutely hated his extended goodfamily. They were just too prickly and frozen a pack of wolves who knew not a good jape when they heard one and looked at him as though he ought to be ashamed of himself. But such came from having married a fish whose sister was Lady of Winterfell, and so he would have to break his fast as quickly as possible, for Lysa insisted upon eating with the Starks at all meals during this tournament, and while his wife was in King’s Landing with their four children he attempted to put on a good show of family for them at least—though Caesar suspected that Tygett, his eldest son at three and ten namedays might be beginning to see through the ruse he and his mother had crafted by living apart.  
  
Tygett, whom Caesar had named for his favorite uncle growing up, despite his Lannister green eyes, was completely a fish otherwise, and sitting next to his year elder cousin Robb, could have easily been mistaken for his twin brother. But beyond the Tully looks Caesar thought he could see a bit of the lion in his fiery temper that his northern cousin lacked. Lysa said he was exactly like her younger brother Edmure in temperament, but Caesar was convinced it was a Lannister trait—there had to be something Lannister about his heir and future Lord of the Westerlands—once father and he had died of course. Today Tygett would compete with his cousin Robb in their first tournament against squires from all across the realm. For Tygett it would be a chance to display his skills, and for Caesar it was an opportunity to show that his brother wasn’t the only Lannister who could train decent warriors of his own blood.  
  
As one of the Stark’s serving girls blushed furiously when Caesar gave a sly wink to her—it was good to still be thought of as attractive, Caesar had to admit—he was distracted by a sudden shriek.  
  
“Tommen! Not so much food,” scolded Lysa  
  
His only child beyond his bastards to look anything like a Lannister—except for his mother’s Tully blue eyes—simpered like the kittens he was so irritatingly fond of.  
  
“I’m starved!” complained the boy.  
  
“You’re always starved,” grumbled his younger brother, the completely Tully looking six namedays old Robin, who Caesar was convinced was his deceased gooduncle Brynden Tully come again to make his life even more difficult.  
  
“Robin,” warned Caesar, to which he received a sigh and a roll of the eye. After that had passed, Caesar then turned to his other son and quipped, “Your mother is quite right, Tommen. Any more and you’ll have no need for any padding under your armor when you train.” He then took a rather large bite of a peppered sausage.  
  
Lysa, Catelyn, and Stark all stopped in various stages of eating to stare in wonder at him, while the soft boy’s blue eyes began to well up with tears before he rose from the table to run away and cry.  
  
“Father,” began Myrcella, but who thought better of it when she met with a firm glance from him. The Lannister-Tully-Starks then continued breaking their fasts in utter silence—which was one thing Caesar actually appreciated about his goodbrother, was his ability to be quiet.  
  
After the morning meal had finished it was customary for Caesar on the morning of a tournament to visit the Sept and pray to the Warrior, and though it was only Tygett competing this day, alongside Robb, Caesar still insisted that they stop by the Sept of Balor and light a candle before the Warrior. It also gave Caesar a chance to speak with Tygett alone—something that Lysa was reluctant to allow. After kneeling before the alter of the Warrior and lighting a candle for Tygett’s sake, Caesar then rose and indicated for his auburn haired son to follow him.  
  
Patting his son on his back as they left the alter, “On the day of my first tournament your great uncle Tygett took me and your uncle Jaime to the closest Sept and together we prayed to the Warrior. Now, I do so with you and I can hardly be prouder.”  
  
“Was that the same tournament that you sired Gared?” asked Tygett pointedly, his green eyes staring directly at Caesar. Gared Flowers was the name of his eldest bastard, a boy he’d sired off of a Reach whore at a tournament at Oldtown nigh eight and ten years earlier.  
  
“No. I was your age, and your grandfather held a tournament in Lannisport so he could show off your uncle and myself,” Caesar grimaced.  
  
“Why do you dishonor mother, father?” asked Tygett petulantly.  
  
“I think we’ve spoken enough,” clipped Caesar as he took his arm from around his son’s shoulders.  
  
“No, we will talk about this!” insisted Tygett, stopping and almost shouting so the entire Sept could hear them.  
  
“Lower your voice. You are too young to understand,” snapped Caesar in a hushed tone.  
  
“In three years I’ll be a man grown!” protested Tygett in a slightly hushed though still huffy tone.  
  
“And I'll decide when you are you’ll be old enough to understand, until then we will not speak of it,” growled Caesar with a firm grasp to his son’s shoulder.  
  
“Fine, then I’ll ask Uncle Jaime…” murmured Tygett.  
  
That Caesar could not have, and he made sure his son understood him by turning and grabbing him by his shoulders and saying, “You will ask your uncle nothing! Do you understand me?”  
  
Tygett, much to Caesar’s surprise, pushed back and declared, “I’m not some child you can bully like Tommen, father! I’m almost a man grown!”  
  
“A man grown has no need to remind others that he isn’t a child,” sneered Caesar.  
  
“Do you _love_ mother?” demanded Tygett.  
  
 _Love? What is Lysa filling his head with? Songs of knights and their lady loves no doubt. Well… there’s more than one way to undo that! It’s for the best, the boy will be better off knowing life is not like a song._  
  
“There is nothing sweeter in the world than the… love of a woman. Your mother…” _Seven damn her._ “…your mother has never… loved me. And when a husband is in such a position, he has the right to find… love where he can. And if he cannot find it from his wife, he turns elsewhere.”  
  
Tygett nearly demanded, “And that is why I have so many half-brothers and sisters? Because mother doesn’t love you?”  
  
Caesar smirked, knowing that he’d sowed the seeds necessary, “Aye. It is easier in some respects to be a woman. Without any labor they are given love for free, while we men slave for it and oftentimes never receive any reward for our pains.”  
  
 _That and women seem to have forgotten that moontea exists. If I were a woman, I’d drink hardly anything else but moontea._  
  
Caesar seemed to have given something for his son to think on, as the boy remained quiet the entire rest of the journey to the tourney grounds. He left Tygett to ready himself and did not look forward to returning to Lysa—who he saw continued to sit with her sister and the Starks, Myrcella and Sansa sitting near one another exact duplicates of their mothers at younger ages, giggling as they admired many a knight on the field. Tommen had somehow snuck one of his cats with him and was trying to introduce the pet to his cousin Bran’s pet direwolf pup—which was already the size of a typical dog. No, he did not wish to join them, but he knew he would have to, for appearance’s sake.  
  
And then his eyes caught sight of a swath of golden hair, and he turned to see sitting almost directly across from his trueborn family were his twin brother accompanied by all of Caesar’s bastards—the youngest five of the seven, in addition to his bastard cousin, Joy Hill, each born with distinctive Lannister hair. But worst of all was the fact that Unella sat next to Jaime, holding the youngest bastard—the one he’d gotten on her—Tywin, to her chest.  
  
This he could not stand. Lysa likely had already seen the “Golden Pride” as his bastards were called behind his back, that damage could not be undone. Unella with Jaime, though…  
  
He hurried over to the opposing stands and did his best to call down Unella without being seen with either his bastards or her.  
  
“Papa!” squealed Lanna Waters, his second eldest bastard daughter as she rushed to hug him like Myrcella used to great him until recently, when she thought it rather unlady like to do so. Lanna did not have any of those concerns, and Caesar for a brief moment showed some affection for the child by rubbing his gloved hand through his daughter’s hair.  
  
Unella came down next, with Adryanna Sand—her other child he’d sired on her when he’d visited her in Dorne all those years ago close at her heels, and Tywin Hill still nuzzled at her chest, half asleep. Tywin was the only bastard he’d had a choice in naming, and he’d done it to dig at his father’s idea of legacy.  
  
“I’d rather speak to you without an audience,” he confided to her.  
  
“No, we are in public now, and can’t afford to be seen being so… intimate,” she mocked his own words to her back at him.  
  
“Lanna, my pet, perhaps you and Adryanna could pester Alys for me? I would like to speak with her next,” requested Caesar, and Lanna and the sulky-eyed Adryanna ran off to speak with their eldest Valeborn sister.  
  
“Why are you with him?” demanded Caesar ferociously, ignoring the sleepy Tywin on her shoulders.  
  
“He asked me to come, so I did. Why are you so upset? Do you think I might return to Castemere with him and your Golden Pride when the tournament is through?” challenged Unella.  
  
 _Damn her Dornish impudence! If she wasn’t so gods damn attractive…_  
  
“Jaime has always been rather jealous of me. He’s always wanted what was mine, ever since we were little boys. Father gives me Castemere, and after I grow bored with the place and its quarrelsome lords, Jaime asks to be made my castellan and lives there. I rode out to join the rebellion when father wanted to stay put, Jaime ends up killing the King. I sire a few bastards… he collects them and raises them in my own castle to spite me. Now he wants you…”  
  
“If this is the way you’re going to act, mayhaps he should have me. He’s certainly better in bed than you,” hissed Unella for which Caesar raised his hand to slap her, but at that moment Tywin opened his little eyes and stared at Caesar--and he lost his nerve.  
  
“I want you gone from the stands,” he declared furiously before trudging off back to where his trueborn family sat. He ignored the calls of "father" he heard behind him from Alys as he did. He arrived just in time to witness Tygett’s joust.  
  
“There you are, you nearly missed Tygett compete,” commented Lysa, playacting as though she actually cared whether he missed Tygett’s joust or not. As he entered, a man who Caesar knew to be Lord Baelish—a childhood friend of his wife and goodsister—rose and excused himself from the box. The man was a fingerlord from the Vale and in charge of Gulltown’s custom house. His name popped up more than a few times in Lord Arryn’s conversations with him about possible appointments to positions as the Keeper of the Keys, or the King’s Counter that as Master of Coin it was Caesar’s job to appoint. But there was something about Lord Baelish that Caesar didn’t trust. He didn’t know the man well enough to discern what it was, and he did not want to know the man any better than he did. Caesar made a note to ask Lysa about what he had wanted when they were alone.  
  
“Who is he competing against?” asked Caesar as he took his seat next to Lysa.  
  
“A squire who insists on wearing a helmet,” commented his goodsister Catelyn  
  
“He’s such a mystery!” fawned his niece, Sansa.  
  
“I bet he’s quite dashing,” giggled Myrcella and the two little fish girls continued to chatter away.  
  
Tygett for his part looked splendid in the fine red and gold armor that Caesar had had made for him for this occasion. He shook hands with his masked competitor before each went to their separate ends of the field to rise to their mounts.  
  
Queen Jana, Robert’s buxom Tyrell wife, then rose and dropped a handkerchief to indicate for the two boys to charge at each other, and in a moment it was all over. Tygett didn’t have a chance as his competitor had aimed his lance high only to suddenly jerk it into place at the last second as a dodge to fake Tygett out. Caesar recognized the move immediately and looked across the field to the box where his brother sat—Unella still by his side, godsdamn it—and he knew immediately who the mystery boy was. Gared was too old to compete amongst the squires anymore and Crys Pyke was sitting sourly between Adryanna and Lanna. That only left Leon… Leon Rivers. The boy he’d sired a day or two before his marriage to Lysa.  
  
 _Seven damn him!_  
  
Tygett looked sulky, and the helmeted Leon jumped off his horse and with an ever gallant display assisted his half-brother up from the muddied pit. Caesar prayed that Leon would keep his helmet on for the rest of the tourney.  
  
 _Let him be a mystery…_  
  
But Tygett, sour at having lost, grabbed at his half-brother’s helmet and pulled it off to reveal to everyone exactly who had beaten him, and Caesar wanted to die right there and then. Lysa of course knew the boy immediately. He was the son of her formerly favorite handmaid and beyond his Lannister hair looked exactly like his mother. She rose without looking at anyone but the red-faced Tygett storming off the field.  
  
“I must see to my son,” she murmured as she left.  
  
Mayhaps it was all the wine he had had at the feast after the tournament. Mayhaps it was Lord Baelish’s constant appearances through the meal. Or mayhaps it had been the glares he’d received from Lysa and the Starks throughout the meal on one side of the hall, and Unella upon the other. Either way he ended up flirting and later taking the silly little Northern maid into his private chambers. Something was fuzzy about his senses—they all felt wrong, but he dismissed that as he tumbled through the sheets with the Northern wench.  
  
The next morning he was found dead in his bed by the Northern maid. His death was shocking as no signs of foul play could be determined. It was as though he had fallen asleep and simply died with no other explanation to it.  
  
Nine moons later, after his father’s death, Caesar Snow was born and fetched by his uncle Jaime to join the Golden Pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LANNISTER FAMILY TREE
> 
> Tywin LANNISTER, Lord of the Westerlands and Casterly Rock  
> m. Joanna LANNISTER (died in childbirth)  
> -Caesar LANNISTER, Lord of Castamere, Heir to the Westerlands and Casterly Rock  
> -m. Lysa TULLY, Lady of Riverrun  
> \--Tygett LANNISTER [13] (named for Caesar's favorite uncle; has Tully looks, but Lannister eyes; often compared in personality to his Uncle Edmure Tully; if he didn't look & act so much like a Tully, Caesar would consider him his favorite)  
> \--Myrcella LANNISTER [10] (is completely Tully in looks, is thought to be a twin to her cousin Sansa Stark, with whom she is in frequent contact with via Raven; her mother's favorite child)  
> \--Tommen LANNISTER [8] (has Lannister looks, but his mother's Tully eyes; a sweet boy who is overly fond of cats and kittens, Caesar thinks him an embarrassment)  
> \--Robin LANNISTER [6] (is completely Tully in looks, is thought by Caesar to be Brynden Tully come again)
> 
> -s.r. Various Women
> 
> The Golden Pride (all were born with Lannister hair)  
> \--Gared FLOWERS [17] (gotten on a whore at a Tournament in the Reach)  
> \--Alys STONE [15] (gotten on a whore at a Tournament in the Vale)  
> \--Leon RIVERS [13] (gotten on one of his betrothed's maids at Riverrun a few days before the marriage)  
> \--Crys PYKE [10] (gotten on a whore during the Greyjoy Rebellion)  
> \--Lanna WATERS [9] (gotten on a whore at a Tournament in King's Landing)  
> \--Adryanna SAND [7] (eldest child off his Dornish mistress; was born in Dorne and raised there until Unella came to King's Landing at Caesar's invitation)  
> \--Tywin HILL [4] (youngest child off Unella, was born in the Westerlands and promptly given to Jaime to raise; he is the only member of the pride that Caesar named himself, as a mockery to his father)  
> \--Caesar SNOW [conception] (gotten on a maid of Catelyn Stark's)
> 
> -Ser Jaime LANNISTER, Castellan of Castamere  
> \--Joy HILL (natural daughter of Gerion LANNISTER, ward of Ser Jaime's)
> 
> -Maester Tyrion LANNISTER (rapidly rising at Oldtown, seeking to be the youngest Grandmaester in the history of Westeros & replace Pycelle)


	3. Eddara Stark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Three, after many years of hiding her face in shame at the war she had never meant to cause, Eddara Stark leaves the Neck with her sons.

**EDDARA STARK**

She sat on a bench by one of the long tables in the Great Crannog-Greywater Watch's equivalent to a solar and a Great Hall combined in one. Around her on the wooden walls hung the banners of the great houses of the Neck in full display.

"You are not going," declared Eddara to her son Brandon, her youngest child who sat before her.

"I have to. I must leave tomorrow!" implored Bran, his green eyes wide with concern.

She insisted as she took her youngest into her embrace and held him tight, "You do not have to, there's no obligation."

"I've seen it myself. I have seen the journey I take," answered Brandon while he tilted his head up to meet her eyes.

"He saved Jojen's life…" added Howland, stepping out from the fringes of the room to add his say.

Jojen... she recalled fretting for hours when he'd slipped and fell into the grey waters which Greywater Watch was build o'ertop of. Meera had managed to pull Jojen to shore, but he had been unable to revive him. For a long moment she had thought him dead. And then Jojen had awoken with a start-his eyes shifting from Stark grey to his father's green ever after and saying that a three-eyed crow had given him a second life. Mentioning Jojen did not help matters any, if anything, it was complicating things.

"You are not going, and that is it!" determined Eddara stubbornly before she rose and marched out of room and out of the Great Crannog of Greywater Watch. She clutched at her cloak to keep the mists off her as she crossed one of the many wooden bridges which connected the ring of crannogs together to form Greywater Watch. She did not know where she was going, only that she needed to be alone for the moment—a sensation relatively easy to achieve in the murky swamps and lukewarm mists of the Neck—even here in Greywater Watch. After crossing several platforms, crannogs, and bridges, Eddara eventually came to the Old North Tower, which lay in half ruin and covered in vines and moss from disuse. It was the northernmost part of Greywater Watch, and where she often found herself coming to when she felt troubled or needed some time to herself. As she climbed the ruined tower she heard the sound of something dropping into the swampy waters below. Someone was already here. Part of Eddara wanted to turn around and find somewhere else but another part was curious to see who else had taken refuge in the tower. So she climbed its winding half-eroded steps until she came to the top. The roof had long since caved in along with half the outer wall, but what remained was a window in which she saw her son, Jon, sitting in, looking out towards the North and occasionally throwing a small stone out into the distant swamps. He either hadn't noticed her, or didn't care that she had joined him as he continued looking off lonely and forlorn—beyond Bran, he was her little wolf pup among the crannogs—well he wasn't so much a pup anymore, he was nearly a man grown now. He was dressed much like a crannogman in lizard-lion leathers and thinly spun wool, and they didn't suit him. Thinking of Jon allowed her to put aside her conversation with Bran, and her worries for Jojen.

"Are you going to throw the tower back into the bogs pebble by pebble then?" asked Eddara with an attempt to be good natured. She wasn't very good at it, she hadn't Brandon's charm, Benjen's wit, or Lyanna's easygoing nature. When she tried to be good natured, what she said came out awkwardly and rather complexly so that she felt she was tripping over her words like she would tree roots in a marsh. This though, she hoped silently to herself, was one of her better attempts.

"If it teaches me patience, then aye," replied Jon bitterly. Eddara felt a sting in the reply. She had promised him that she would tell him the name of his father one day when he was ready—and that until then he would have to be patient. The truth was, Eddara didn't want to revisit that chapter of her life—it was far far too painful to remember.

_A song ice and fire…_

No. She couldn't think of that! The mere thought of _him_ touching her body like he had repulsed her. She couldn't do it—she couldn't even admit it, not even to herself. So she remained silent to her son's brazen attempt at provoking her into letting the truth be known.

_The truth cannot be known, it can never be known._

"Am I that much an embarrassment to you?" asked Jon. He was continuing to provoke her, but the way he said it, with such self-loathing—that she couldn't allow. So Eddara crossed the tower and forced her eldest child to look at her straight in the face as she grabbed his shoulders.

Their grey eyes met and she fiercely stated, "Never for one minute believe you're an embarrassment to me or anything else. You have never once brought me shame—nor do I ever regret having you. You are _my_ son. Mine alone."

She wanted to say more, but held her tongue as the thoughts plagued her mind.

_You are not my shame… I am my own shame. I was too weak to prevent it from happening…_

"It takes more than just a mother to have a child," he retorted bitterly.

That she couldn't deny, not really, but she'd let the Others take her before she admitted that _he_ had sired Jon. Her eldest she thanked the gods had nothing of his father in him, of that Eddara was certain—he was all Stark, as if he had burst forth from her without a father. She had pretended that that was the case for many years of his childhood and he had been happy to know it then. But then Meera grew followed soon after by Jojen, and finally Bran—all a mixture of Howland and her—well, except for Jojen, he was his father in miniature with those green eyes now. When Jon looked at them, the illusion that Jon had needed no father had begun to founder. Howland had tried to be his father in all things, and he'd done more than any man would have done in allowing Eddara to raise him alongside their own children, but once Jon had figured out that Howland wasn't his father in the way he was to Meera or Jojen, well, Jon had stopped giving him a chance to be anything else but his stepfather.

Jon seemed to adopt a pleading tone, he had used more as a child. It made him appear younger than his years as he supplicated "It's only a name mother. That's all I want…"

"It isn't just a name, after you know the name a whole flurry of questions will trouble you. Some of which I know you do not want to know the answer to."

"Why won't you let me find out for myself if I want to know the answers or not?"

She sighed, "Because you're better off not knowing…"

"How can you say that?" he rebounded.

She responded, "I have to live with it, and if I can barely handle it, then let me bare the knowledge so you can be free of it and make your own life."

Jon was silent for a moment before answering with a rather shocked tone, "So I am an embarrassment."

Eddara whipped around and nearly shouted, "You are not!"

He met her volume as he replied, "Then tell me! Tell me about Rhaegar!"

Eddara froze at the sound of _his_ name. The name of the man who after failing to woo her had taken her and started a war… She stared at her eldest son. Almost the instant it came out of his mouth, Jon appeared as though he regretted saying anything, but then he gathered himself and added, "H—howland told me. But I—I wanted to hear it from you. I _need_ to hear it from you, mother."

She felt like crying, but no tears came to her eyes. Her son rose and took her hands and held them tight as she simply stared at him. Suddenly she couldn't help but notice how lithe he was and graceful in his movements. _He_ had been lithe and graceful as well, she recalled thinking at Harrenhal.

_No… he's still my wolf pup. Not a dragon in a wolf's skin…_

"Please mother…please!" he implored in a tone which unlocked a memory she had tried to keep hidden from herself for so long, but now could not help but burst forth.

_Please Dara… please!_

She felt hands run over her body, caressing her roughly as she felt a sharp pain betwixt her legs. Gone were the cool mists and she once again felt the dry heat of Dorne about her. The tower about her seemed to change hue to the reddish color of stone found commonly in the Red Mountains. It was all too similar!

She had to leave the tower. Without a word she pulled her hands free of her son's and rushed down the crumbling steps, disturbing a flock of crows that had taken perch in the tower since her ascent, sending them scattering into the mists of Greywater Watch. Upon reaching the bottom of the tower she rushed out to the wooden bridge to the next crannog—where she, Howland and the children took rest in, and rushed to her bed—at long last receiving the privacy she had long desired. She thought of everything in her life—she had always done as her father told her to do, to step back and let her brothers or some other men handle things for her. She'd withdrawn from life and let others lead her where she may because it was her duty as a woman to obey. But then Rhaegar had crowned her Queen of Love and Beauty—she had not asked for it, the attendants of Harrenhal were stunned—Brandon had wanted to challenge the Prince on her honor. Eddara had wished to say something, but she recalled her father's words and remained silent. Of the two Stark sisters, Lyanna was the pretty one, but she had married Robert in Eddara's place when Robert objected to marrying the "Ice Bitch" to quote the term he'd coined as a child for her and her over attentiveness to honor and his sometimes lack of it. She had tried to make amends with the Princess, even seeking out her quarters to make her apologies in person—only to find them jealously guarded by Lady Ashara, who had been quick to use her tongue to call her everything approaching whore but the very word itself. Eddara had given up and returned to suffering in silence.

If she had been a man, then she might have had a voice, or at least been expected and able to speak her part. Instead as a lady she'd done as she was expected and held her tongue and endured.

When the prince later came wooing, she'd attempted to remind him of his duty to his wife and children, but that had been all for naught. All her life she had done as she had been told, held her tongue, been as much of a lady as the world would allow her. Yet despite all this, or mayhaps because of all this, things had gone all wrong. What would have happened if she had been more like Lya and taken what she wanted? What would have happened if she had spoken her mind instead of staying silent? What would happen now if she stopped hiding and spoke the truth?

This radical thought sprang forth in her mind as she suddenly imagined a very different life. Not one where she hid herself, her shame, and her bastard son away in the swamps, but instead traveled North and saw Winterfell. A life where she'd be accepted home as a full-fledged daughter not some embarrassment that'd brought the realm to war, and cost many men their lives. She could even see taking the children with her. She was brought out of her imaginings by a soft footstep against the gravel of the crannog's floor. She looked up to see Howland… good sweet honorable Howland standing by the door to their portion of the crannog. Half of her wanted to run up and embrace him while the other half wanted to yell and scream as she recalled Jon's confession in the old north tower. She settled for an accusation.

"You promised," she said simply.

He looked at her sadly before answering, "I've promised many things."

"Why?" she asked directly.

Howland sighed before saying, "Because he said that Jon must know so he can lead Bran to him."

"Are all my children then to leave me?" she asked bitterly.

"No… we will have Meera and Jojen here."

"While we trust Jon and Bran to some three eyed crow," she rancorously finished.

"I am sending some men to guard them," he said.

She retorted "Men who know little beyond the Neck…"

A moment passed before he asked, "What do you want me to say, Eddara?"

"That they should stay with us!"

Silence stretched between the two long before Howland said, "I'll go myself, then."

"And leave me to run the Neck? Jyanna Peat alone would challenge me as being too Northern."

He asked what he had before, but far differently than it had been asked the first time, "What do you want, then?"

Outside her crannog, Eddara heard a crow squawk, followed by a distant howl of a wolf, and suddenly she knew.

"I'll go."

"What?!" exclaimed Howland, now crossing to her.

Eddara rose, "I will take my sons and head North with them. If this three eyed crow wants them, then he will have to deal with me first!"

Howland looked as if he wanted to argue, but he didn't. Instead he simply took her hand and gently kissed it—his brown beard tickling her slightly, but she did not let that distract her. In response she met her husband's lips with her own and they shared a passionate kiss full of regret, bliss, and need. She did not head out that night, instead, she and Howland said goodbye to one another.

In the early morning, just before dawn, Eddara rose to dress herself and packed what little she needed for the journey by foot. Hopefully when they reached Winterfell they could take a few horses for the rest of the journey—wherever it was to lead them. Bran, much to her surprise was already packed, as was Jon, and waiting by the bridge that connected the series of isolated crannogs and islands of Greywater Watch to the gate on the mainland.

"You're coming with us?" asked a surprised Jon, stunned the moment he'd seen her clearly through the mists.

"I told you she would," insisted Bran with a little nudge to Jon as if he had been foolish to doubt him.

She met her eldest son's eye and then admitted, "Aye… and… I have some things to speak with you about concerning your father."

And so began her long journey north, one which only became more difficult as she grew with her last child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STARK FAMILY TREE
> 
> Rickard STARK, Lord of the North and Winterfell (dies of old age shortly after the marriage of Sansa and Aegon)  
> m. Lyarra STARK
> 
> -Brandon STARK, Heir to the North and Winterfell  
> -m. Catelyn TULLY  
> \--Sansa STARK  
> \--m. Aegon TARGARYEN  
> \--Arya STARK  
> \--Eddard STARK (OTL Robb)  
> \--Rickon STARK  
> -s.r. Ashara DAYNE  
> \--Asteria SAND  
> -s.r. Barbrey DUSTIN  
> \--Rickard DUSTIN (Willam doesn't know or pretends not to)  
> -s.r. Various Women  
> \--Many Snow children scattered across the North, and a few Rivers and Waters that he's unaware of... too numerous to list
> 
> -Eddara STARK, Lady of the Neck and Greywater Watch  
> -m. Howland REED  
> \--Meera REED  
> \--Jojen REED  
> \--Brandon REED (OTL Brandon - his greenseer powers are apparent though from birth ITTL)  
> -r. Rhaegar TARGARYEN  
> \--Jon SNOW
> 
> -Lyanna STARK, Lady of the Stormlands and Storm's End  
> -m. Robert BARATHEON  
> \--Brandon BARATHEON  
> \--m. Rhaenys TARGARYEN  
> \--Orys BARATHEON  
> \--Cassana BARATHEON
> 
> -Benjen STARK, Lord of the Wolfswood and the Wolf's Keep  
> -m. Alys Waynwood the Younger  
> \--Lyarra STARK  
> \--bet. Jasper Arryn (OTL Robert Arryn)


	4. Brynda "Raven Eye" Tully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Four, Brynda Tully has seen war, but more importantly she's seen the vain Bat her father wishes to betroth her to. And she's determined to fight him every step of the way, or so she thought.

**BRYNDA “RAVEN EYE” TULLY**

 

There was absolutely no fucking way she was going to let Hoster or their father get away with this. She would escape, even if she had to dig her way out of this cell with one of the spoons they provided at the meals.

 

Oswell Whent, her fellow ‘prisoner’ in the rather comfortably fitted dungeon whined from the cot he’d claimed for his own, “Stop pacing for one bloody minute, will you?”

 

“I’m not pacing! I’m examining the wall for where its weaknesses are!” insisted Brynda. But truly, Brynda felt trapped—she always paced when she felt trapped.

 

Oswell scoffed, “There are none, Harren the Black built the walls too damn thick. Short of dragonfire—we’re not going anywhere, my lady.”

 

“Don’t call me that!” snapped Brynda, as she gave him a glare. She wasn’t a lady. She had battle scars and callouses enough to prove it—and had she been a man, she would’ve been knighted along with this vain, glory-seeking rogue of House Whent, or mayhaps even before.

 

Oswell asked sardonically, “What would you prefer to be called, then? Wench?”

 

She was on top of him and throwing a punch at Oswell with her weak arm the next moment, which was deflected, but he missed the second one to his gut with her strong arm—like she had hoped.

 

Oswell attempted to push her off of him as he gasped out, “All right, wench it isn’t, Raven Eye!”

 

Hearing the nickname she’d been given during the recent war when she’d bound her breasts, cut her hair, and called herself “Brynden Rivers” made her stop. At first she recalled how she’d been called that mockingly—simply due to the similarity of names held with that Targaryen Great Bastard of old. Later, when her skill with archery had been proven, the men on the campaign had switched to calling her that affectionately, that her eye was as sharp as a raven’s—and her bow quite deadly. She couldn’t tell how Oswell meant it—so she gave him a good knee to his side all the same.

 

“Then what in the name of the Seven Hells do you want to be called?” growled Oswell as he nursed his sores and aches

 

“I have a name, use it,” she grunted as she took her seat by the table with a yellow table cloth embroidered with bats at the center of the cell.

 

He continued to moan and groan as he clutched his stomach and his side, to the point where it became rather unbelievable.

 

“That might have gotten you a wench in the Disputed Lands, but it won’t do anything to me. So quit your mummer’s farce and act like the knight you’re supposed to be!” declared Brynda as she rested her boots on the table.

 

Oswell defended himself, “I’m not putting on a mummer’s farce. You really have quite the arm behind you.”

 

“Words are wind and flattery won’t unlock the door,” she said as she took a bite of a green apple—it was tart tasting, but an apple nonetheless.

 

He abandoned his pretentions, “Then how else do you expect us to leave this cell?”

 

She swallowed her apple bite and said, “We wait them out,” before taking another bite.

 

Oswell broke into an uproarious laughter—one she had grown quite tired of hearing on campaign, and one that was even more irritating now. Grabbing another apple she tossed it at her cell mate, hitting him squarely in the shoulder, which seemed to knock some kind of sense into him.

 

He tried to speak as he recovered from laughing, eventually lowering his voice to a whisper only she could hear, “Pardon me… _Brynda_ , but… once an idea has situated itself into my sister’s head, there’s no dislodging it. Minisa is as stubborn as a mule when she thinks she’s in the right. If we’re to ever convince her to unlock the cell door, we’ll have to trick her and that servant of hers outside our cell into thinking we’ve agreed. Now, I’ll go back to moaning and you can throw a fuss over me and we can start making a game of it for the rest of them.”

 

He spoke rather too eagerly to play this game, but then he’d likely practiced it enough while on campaign with every tavern wench they passed in the Disputed Lands.

 

“While you know your sister, I know my father. Before he has either of us leave this cell he’ll lock us in here with a Septon before letting us out, just to be safe!”

 

Reluctantly he seemed to give up his idea, suggesting, “Then we need to convince your brother to nab the key from my sister, then.”

 

“Considering how mooney-eyed he was when he first saw her, I’d say the only thing keeping his cock in his pants is his honor. She likely has him around her little finger by now.”

 

Why else would Hoster betray her like that? She’d crawled out of Harrenhal by the sewers into the Godseye and then swam to shore far enough to make a break for it into a nearby patch of woods, only to have Hoster there waiting. She’d saved his bloody life on the ship, and this was how he repaid her, by shackling her to the first man their father wanted her married to?

 

_I should’ve let that pirate drive an ax into his thick head…_

 

Almost immediately upon thinking it, Brynda hated herself for thinking it. She did not want that. Gods no, she didn’t. Hoster had played swords with her first until he had thought himself too “grown up” to play with his “baby sister”.

 

Unnoticed to her, Oswell had not laughed in response to her offhanded comment, like she had expected of him, but instead had stood, looking quite grim, his eyes narrowed at Brynda.

 

“My sister is an honest and honorable lady, and I’ll not have you imply she’s got any man wrapped around any finger of hers like some common…” he struggled to find the word he wanted to say next before landing on “…bawd!”

 

“I meant no insult to your sister,” answered Brynda, feeling uneasy about Oswell’s dark look at the moment.

 

“Your tone hinted otherwise,” retorted Oswell.

 

Brynda snapped, feeling the need to match Oswell by standing and meeting his glare, “If I meant to insult anyone, it was my blockhead of a brother!”

 

At this Oswell’s glare lessened, but he spoke, as if he were a child about ready to pout, “Good, for my sister’s to be the Lady of Harrenhal with Walter’s death.”

 

“And here I thought my father wished to marry me to the newly minted Lord of Harrenhal?”

 

Oswell said quite simply and softly, “I don’t want it.”

 

“Truly? Why not?” she questioned, this being the first she’d ever heard of such a case beyond herself.

 

“It was always supposed to be Walter’s—not mine. And besides, the castle’s too bloody big and too damn expensive to keep up. It’s brought every house that’s owned it nothing but terrible luck and a bloody end, from Hoare to Lothstan.”

 

She nearly broke into a peel of laughter, but stopped herself almost as soon as she had begun. He gave her a funny look.

 

She nearly blushed as she said, “Forgive me, but you don’t seem the type to have paid attention to a Maester’s lessons.”

 

He looked a little hurt by her words, but only for an instant before he shook it off and added, “Yeah well, if your brother likes my sister as much as you say he does, then House Tully can have Harrenhal and keep it.”

 

Feeling somewhat guilty for her slight towards his interests, she asked genuinely, “And what do you want to do, if not be a lord?”

 

“Just be a knight—mayhaps join the Kingsguard,” he said rather nonchalantly, before adding, “but who knows what the future holds. You? What does the warrior maiden fish want from her life.”

 

“To do as I fucking well please, and not play the damn game of thrones like every other lord and lordling does,” she told him quite honestly.

 

Oswell smirked, “I guess that’s what I want too—only I have a way to get out of it with either the Kingsguard or the Wall—gods help me. But you—if you wiggle yourself out of this marriage, surely your father and brother will try another?”

 

She spoke idly, “I’ll go to Dorne or beyond the Wall if I have to. The Dornish have Nymeria and the Wildlings have their spear wives.”

 

Oswell japed, “There’s only the Antler to swim in north of the Wall—and a trout like you is like to freeze in those waters. You’d boil in the Greenblood in Dorne.”

 

Brynda rolled her eyes at his attempt at humor and said “Then to Essos as Brynden Rivers. I’m not picky—just so long as I have a weapon in my hand.”

 

“What if…” he began, but stopped himself short.

 

“What?” she asked when he failed to finish his thought for some time.

 

He asked tentatively, “What if you found a man who’d let you have your weapons?”

 

“Then I’d find the only man with some fucking common sense in all the world—a rarity to behold,” she laughed.

 

He did not join her laughter so quickly, but he did after a moment.

 

“I’d more easily find a man who’d worry I’d beat him with my own hand with a weapon than let me keep them…”

 

And then it hit her.

 

“That’s it.”

 

“What’s it?” asked Oswell.

 

“That’s how we’ll get out!”

 

Oswell bantered, “Forgive this bat for not following, but you’re swimming in muddy waters, trout!”

 

She explained, “I’ll tell my father that I’ll marry you, only if you can beat me in an archery contest.”

 

“And if I win?” asked Oswell with an odd look in his eye.

 

She assured him, “You won’t—even if you did try you wouldn’t win.”

 

“I was trained by Lord Darry himself, I’ll have you know!” puffed up Oswell.

 

“I’m sure you’re a good shot,” she groaned.

 

Oswell sat up on his cot in a more composed manner, “Good? I’m one of the best!”

 

She scoffed, “I didn’t see that with all the sword waving you were doing in the war.”

 

He protested, “One doesn’t get onto the Kingsguard by archery alone.”

 

She met him one and upped the ante, “No, one has to suck up to the King’s favorites—kinda hard to do so when we get a new king and the favorites change, isn’t it?”

 

“Just like one doesn’t get to the far reaches of the Known World rotting in a cell!” he snapped back at her.

 

“This is beside the point—” she started.

 

“Agreed,” chimed Oswell.

 

“Then you agree that I’ll tell my father about the archery contest

 

Oswell countered, “Only one problem.”

 

“What?” asked Brynda with potent aggravation.

 

He clarified, “What’s to say they won’t keep us locked up in here until the day of the contest?”

 

“What makes you think my father won’t hold the contest immediately? He wants grandchildren from one of his children—Hoster if not me, the Gods know if Edwyn’ll live long enough to have any.”

 

Edwyn, her youngest brother, was her parent’s last attempt to have a second son and secure the Tully line was a sickly boy, prone to an occasional shaking spell once in a blue moon. He’d killed their mother, and the maester had said Edwyn would be like to follow her shortly thereafter. But he hadn’t. Edwyn had clung to life frantically, if weakly. He was a lonely child, Brynda had tried to play with him when she could, but her father always insisted she was a bit too rough for her younger brother. So she spent time with him as best she could—even if it was restricted to the walls of Riverrun and he wasn’t allowed to swim in the waters of the Red Fork and the Tumblestone.

 

Oswell began, “This was Minisa’s idea—locking us in a cell—she won’t let up until she thinks it’s done the trick. So they’ll delay the contest until…”

 

“Until what?” asked Brynda.

 

“You know the answer,” he said.

 

She also knew what would get him to go along with wounding his damn man’s pride for losing to a woman. So, picking up a flagon that was on the table and grabbing two goblets she sighed poured wine into each and gave him the illusion of that at least, “Then we convince your sister that I might be coming around to the idea, but I am reluctant enough to want the contest.”

 

Oswell smiled—though it never quite reached his eyes, “Exactly. That way, if they delay the contest for a while, at least we’re out of this cell.”

 

“Aye that we would,” she agreed as she put down the flagon of wine.

 

She’d have to dote over the vain Bat of Harrenhal for a few days or a week at most—then play the contrary part that she actually didn’t like him, then dote on him again, and so on and so forth like a bloody mummer, but it would “entertain” their family enough to let them out of the cell, and if they convinced them of it quickly enough, the contest would be held sooner and she’d beat his inflated smarmy head so well, that he’d never hear the end of it for the rest of his days.

 

“Then we ought to get to practicing,” said Oswell, a bit too eagerly as he rearranged himself back into the position where he’d pretended to hold his sides and gut in pain.

 

“You might need the practice, but I won’t perform this mummer’s farce for free,” she grunted, as she stood and took a goblet filled with wine in each hand.

 

“What do I need to practice for?” he asked, somewhat startled, sitting up as he took note of her approach.

 

She handed him his goblet and said, “Haven’t you ever seen a mummer’s show? It takes two to make a convincing relationship. If the one mummer does all the work, the piece falls flat.”

 

He said stubbornly, “I’ll play my part if you play yours. And what in the Seven Hells are we drinking to?”

 

She answered simply, “Our plan and our escape.”

 

“Escape of what?” he pressed, before she had a chance to lift her goblet to her lips.

 

“From conventions,” she replied.

 

He looked at her a moment oddly before smirking and saying, “Aye, that I’ll drink to.”

 

When Minisa, Father, Hoster, Edwyn, and the various servants arrived with their dinner, Oswell surprised her by playing his part before she had a chance to—holding out her chair for her like she was some bloody dragon princess. She was tempted to snap at Oswell, but he simply grinned at her, and she knew that she could not break character if she wanted to convince their families. So she accepted the chair like a lady would—earning her a shocked look from both her brothers, and a pleasantly surprised look from father. Minisa however, who sat between Father and Hoster, only stared at her suspiciously as she took her seat next to Oswell’s. She jumped into her part, attempting to embarrass him by offering to cut his meat for him from the roast that had been brought in, pulling out her knife.

 

“I’m afraid I hurt his shoulder earlier… wouldn’t want him to strain it,” she explained with an overt sweetness that caused a serving girl standing at the edge of the cell to break into giggles until one of her fellow servers gave her a hard glance.

 

Oswell raised his eyebrows, as if to say she were playing her part too well.

 

It was her one and ten namedays brother who said what the rest of the family was thinking, “You’re not ill, are you, Brynda?”

 

“I’m not bloody ill,” replied Brynda, and a slight look of relief washed across her brother’s face, but it didn’t stay there for long, as if he wasn’t truly convinced.

 

Brynda toned down acting as though she and Oswell were fond of one another a bit more, and the meal continued as they had want up until this point. Father spoke of the beauty of Harrenhal, Minisa—ever the charming and perfect hostess—boasted of its designs and divulged a few of its secrets, Hoster pretended to listen to Minisa while he couldn’t help but keep his eyes from the girl. The only thing different was Oswell, who took an interest in conversing with Edwyn and listening to all his discoveries that he thought was the first. Brynda watched as Oswell conspired with her youngest brother about where to find the best worms to use as bait for fishing in the God’s Eye, or scared him with the tale of the one time he nearly ran into the ghosts of one of Harren the Black’s sons.

 

“How do you know it wasn’t Harren the Black himself?” piped up Edwyn curiously.

 

“Because Harren the Black would never groan out of sight—every time someone sees the ghost of Harren the Black, they see his ghost writhing in flames.”

 

“Don’t say too much more, you’ll scare him,” teased Brynda at that moment as she saw her youngest brother’s eyes grow wide with fear.

 

“I’m not scared! I’ve grown up a lot since you and Hoster went to war!” protested Edwyn, attracting everyone’s attention for the nonce.

 

“She didn’t mean to say you didn’t. She’s just being your protective big sister—it’s what they do. Trust me—I know what they do all too well,” insisted Oswell with a fleeting glance at his own sister before returning to look at Edwyn with a hint of conspiracy.

 

“Don’t they get any better?” harrumphed Edwyn like the child he was. Brynda was about to say something when Oswell intercepted her attempt.

 

“Let them worry and fret, it’s better than the opposite,” he said almost sagely, to which Edwyn begrudgingly agreed. Brynda couldn’t help but be surprised at how easily Oswell was with her little brother, and couldn’t help but watch the two interact for the rest of the meal.

 

That night, when the cell was once again theirs—if you discounted the servant chaperoune right outside the door that was—Brynda came over to Oswell’s cot and said, “Thank you,” before turning around.

 

“For what?” asked Oswell, confused.

 

“For being like a… good brother to Edwyn,” said Brynda.

 

Oswell dismissed it with a shrug, “I always wanted a younger brother, but my mother was too old to have another after me,” but she thought she saw a smile work its way onto his lips in the dark.

 

She stood there awkwardly for a moment before saying good night and crossing the cell to her own bed. She might have imagined it, but she thought she heard him mumble his own “good night” before she laid down to sleep.

 

Edwyn, apparently having more freedom than at home, rushed into their cell half out of breath around midday with a fishing line that had a large bass on its end. He exclaimed how Oswell’s worm advice of digging near the half melted eastern wall had helped him catch what he thought was the biggest bass in the entire God’s Eye. Brynda smiled as she took the bones out of her brother’s catch with a knife that Edwyn had brought. She did it expertly as she watched Oswell and Edwyn whisper and exchange tales of being the youngest brothers of the family—and such hardships they imagined that they faced. As the days passed, it became easier to pretend to like Oswell—as she felt something of an understanding and a friendship forming with the vain Bat of Harrenhal. They no longer went out of their way to try and find unnatural ways to convince their families that they were developing an attraction for one another—though reluctantly—but instead simply found excuses to speak to one another more than they were apt to in public before. Edwyn was a constant presence in their cell—appearing each day after that to play games with Oswell and the two eventually conspiring to drag Brynda into one of their silly notions—whether it be “King of the Table” or hearing how Brynda had shot down the pirate who’d nearly hacked off Hoster’s head—a tale which Oswell had agreed to listen to quite attentively.

 

When Brynda made the announcement that she would give her consent to marry Oswell only if he beat her in an archery contest, Hoster laughed. After throwing the hard end of a loaf of bread at the stupid red beard he was growing out—since Minisa said he looked good with a beard—she gaged her father’s reaction.

 

Lord Lucas Tully smiled knowingly at her and said, “You may have your doubts, Brynda, but I don’t think you’d find a better man for you than this one here.”

 

“If he can beat me with a bow,” she emphasized.

 

“He’ll certainly give you quite the competition,” chimed in Minisa.

 

“Why I do believe that’s the first compliment I’ve heard from you about my skills, sweet sister” commented Oswell sardonically.

 

“Oh brother dearest, when will you learn that when you _deserve_ compliments, you get them. Your head’s already big enough as it is,” teased Minisa with a saucy smile, to which Brynda laughed.

 

“When will it be held?” asked Oswell with an odd note of sadness.

 

“On the morrow—no use in dragging things out I’d think,” offered Hoster, to which no one else disagreed. Brynda smiled—half to play her part, and half relieved that this mummer’s farce would be over soon. Oswell smiled, but like she’d noticed before it didn’t reach his eyes.

 

And the morrow came early for Brynda. She awoke—as she always did—with the sun. She stretched herself and limbered her body in preparation for the approaching shoot. Oswell, as was his custom, slept in as late as he liked, and Brynda mused that this morning would be the last she’d have to wake seeing Oswell across the cell from her. For some reason that did not seem as great of an achievement as it had several days ago. She chastised herself the moment she recognized what those small hints were the beginnings of.

 

Don’t go soft now. It’s not like he’s interested in marriage either.

 

Still she had an apple and a blood orange from the bowl of fruit kept out for them and watched as he slept. He looked younger when he slept—when his face wasn’t stretched into some sardonic smile and his eyes weren’t rolling. Not that she minded that humor—they’d had their share of quips hadn’t they?

 

“Is it morning?” he asked lazily, when he did awake not long after she’d finished peeling the blood orange.

 

“Good morrow,” she replied a bit formally. It would have to be something he would get used to after this after all.

 

“Fuck it…” he said

 

She gathered herself and nearly chastised him like a mother would, but stopped just short of that and settled for sounding more like an older sister, “I know you want to sleep in, but today’s not the day.”

 

“No… I wanted to wake up earlier than this,” he grumbled as he ran his hands over his face.

 

“Why?” she asked plaintively.

 

Oswell was silent for a moment, before swallowing and saying, “I wanted to talk about the… competition.”

 

She fumbled with the piece of blood orange she was separating from the rest in that moment squirting her hands with its sticky juice.

 

“What’s there to talk about? We’ll knock our arrows—you’ll lose on purpose—we’re free to not see each other ever again if we don’t want to.”

 

That was when he shocked her by saying, “That’s just it—I’m not sure that I don’t want to.”

 

She stopped dead still at his sudden pronouncement—her heart beating fast in her throat preventing her from speaking. He looked at her expecting her to answer that. How could she answer that? That was everything they had agreed to work against! That was surrendering.

 

“Say something Brynda… call me stupid or addle headed… something,” he implored—his eyes meeting hers—but her tongue wouldn’t budge. And the moment passed in the next instance when Minisa and Hoster arrived to take them to the courtyard for the competition. Oswell looked at Brynda quite hurt before rising and steeling his face for their siblings.

 

Her fingers were still sticky from the blood orange as they assembled out in the courtyard and were given their choice of bows and arrows from all that Harrenhal had to offer. They were to shoot seven shots in honor of the Seven—the best shot of seven would be the victor. Oswell’s arrows were fletched with yellow and black feathers, and Brynda’s were fletched with red and blue. They waited for her elderly father to make his way to the spot—having hobbled out of breath on his fish-headed cane all the way to the center of the courtyard.

 

“Lord Tully, you didn’t have to strain yourself,” insisted Lady Minisa.

 

“Nonsense… this is a very important day in my daughter’s life… of course I must be here!” insisted her father as he took the designated chair for him. And suddenly Brynda once again found herself lacking for words.

 

Oswell was wished for luck by Edwyn, who hoped that they would soon be goodbrothers soon. Oswell looked a bit pained by this but assured the boy he’d try his best. Hoster and Minisa watched on silently with bated breath from the ten paces behind which they stood at with the rest of the family.

 

The first round Oswell missed the target while Brynda’s sticky fingers messed up her shot, earning her an outer ring on the target.

 

The next shot, Oswell matched her outer ring, while Brynda missed the target, distracted by Edwyn’s cheering for Oswell.

 

“Now I see why you wanted an archery contest—you’re both equally matched,” teased Hoster.

 

Brynda shot him a withering glance as Oswell missed—though this time it seemed purposely done. In response, she missed on purpose as well, ticked off that he was turning the contest into a farce. He did this on each subsequent shot of his, only aggravating her further, until with only one shot left to her she threw down her bow and snapped, “You’re not even trying!”

 

“That was the deal, wasn’t it?” he sniped back, with a tone of pain in his voice.

 

“You could have tried!” she quipped, not caring that her voice was loud enough for their families to hear them.

 

“Why haven’t you?” he rounded.

 

“You stopped trying first!”

 

He laughed as he said, “I stopped first? No, you did! You could have answered me!”

 

“Get your head out of the clouds for a moment, bat, and speak some fucking sense.”

 

“Just before we left the cell—you could have answered me!”

 

“What was I supposed to say?”

 

“Fucking anything!”

 

She scoffed, “I doubt that.”

 

“Either way, you have your final shot, take it,” he said throwing down his bow and returning to where their families were.

 

Brynda picked up his bow and looked at the target where one shot from each had hit the target on either side of the outer rings. All she needed was one more on the target and the contest would be over. Her mind was all a blur with thoughts.

 

_How could he just not try?_

_How could she just not try?_

_Because she’d earned all of her victories—not had them handed to her on a bloody plate like some spoiled Tyrell rose!_

_What’s the victory?_

 

She shook her head, trying to regain her focus, bringing herself back to the courtyard. She saw the target again, glaring it down. She took her arrow from her quiver and knocked it on her bow. A crow cawed at that moment. And so she aimed and shot towards a crow that had taken perch on a wall not too far behind the target.

 

“It’s a tie,” pronounced Hoster.

 

Brynda grumbled as she turned around to face their families, “Hoster, for once in your life try to not say the bloody obvious.”

 

She saw Oswell staring at her in a confused way.

 

“You missed,” he said rather obviously, though without looking at her.

 

“You were saying that you wanted to speak with me before?” she asked resolutely.

 

He jerked his head to speak with her alone and smiled—this one reached his eyes. When they had put enough distance between themselves and their family—who pretended to be interested in a conversation all their own, Oswell said rather bluntly, “You’re fun to talk to. You get my humor and have a wicked sense of it yourself.”

 

“That’s it?” she asked incredulously.

 

He dared her, “No… but I want to know why you didn’t take the winning shot, first.”

 

“Because… I… I like… fuck… I mean, I enjoy your company,” she stammered out, tripping over her words.

 

“You enjoy my company?” he laughed.

 

She admitted rather hastily, “Aye and I’d rather have the excuse to enjoy it further.”

 

At this he smiled and said teasingly, though quickly fading into the sincere, “I would like the… pleasure of your company as well, rather than see you leave out of those gates.”

 

Sensing something more she prodded further, “And?”

 

With a smirk he added, “And I’d like to think that whether either one of us marries or not, it’s not determined from some bloody contest because that’s a fucking silly story.”

 

She punched him in the arm for that one—but not too hard.

 

They announced to their families to lock them back in the blasted cell since they would like some further time to think on the matter—which they of course took as a guarantee that they would marry. Minisa demanded from Hoster that he pay her the five golden dragons he owed her—which he did with half a grin on his face. Edwyn cheered quite gladly when he wasn’t coughing from all the excitement, and her father just sat there with that damned knowing smile on his face. In fact he sat there with that smile for longer than was expected, and it wasn’t until Edwyn had tugged on his cloak that his head fell limply to his chest. Brynda felt her blood freeze in that instant.

 

“Oswell, get the maester, now!” ordered Minisa as she began pulling Edwyn off of father. And Oswell was off in an instant. Hoster stared in silence—recognizing like she did the truth before their eyes.

 

“He’s just… asleep,” assured Minisa falsely to her worried younger brother as she held him back from their aged father.

 

The master had her father carried to his tower and only confirmed what Hoster and she had already known. Oswell was the one to find her and tell her, looking out from a tower down on the courtyard’s evening light. They said nothing further as nothing needed to be said. Instead he simply stood by her side as she stood there looking at where her father had spent his last moments, as if trying to etch it forever in her mind. At some point she’d taken his hand—she didn’t know how it had happened, but she wasn’t sorry it happened.

 

Since his body wouldn’t keep on the road to Riverrun without drawing every wolf in the Riverlands to their party, her father’s boat was built and readied to go out onto the God’s Eye. Edwyn clung to her that windy day on the beach as Hoster knocked a flaming arrow and shot it into the air, only setting half the boat aflame before handing the bow to her. Oswell took Edwyn from her as she took the bow in hand and shot and easily hit the other half, though it had now drifted to a greater distance across the God’s Eye.

 

It was a year until both families met again, as mourning demanded. Minisa had come to Riverrun as guest to Hoster, and Oswell had ridden to offer the opportunity to take Edwyn to squire, if he was ready.

 

She confronted him not long after learning this by the gates of the godswood.

 

“You came to ask him to squire?”

 

He looked at her and answered her simply, “Aye.”

 

“And nothing else?”

 

He smiled weakly, “We did not have the chance to… enjoy each other’s company enough… I thought this way we’d have the opportunity to do so.”

 

She punched him, and said with tears in her eyes, “You don’t need the bloody excuse!”

 

Both she and Hoster were married to Whents by the moon’s turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOUSE TULLY FAMILY TREE
> 
> Lucas TULLY, Lord of Riverrun (b. 207, d. 260)  
> m. Ysolda WAYN (b. 218, d. 249)
> 
>  
> 
> -Hoster TULLY, Lord of Riverrun (b. 235, d. 300)  
> -m. Minisa WHENT (dies of an infection)
> 
> \--Lucas TULLY (b. 262), heir to Riverrun (lives due to a butterfly effect caused by Brynda's presence in the birthing chamber)  
> \--m. Mariya DARRY  
> \---Amerei TULLY  
> \---Minisa TULLY (she's exactly like her grandmother)  
> \---Marissa TULLY  
> \---Edwyn TULLY, Lord of Riverrun
> 
> \--Catelyn TULLY (b. 263), Lady of Winterfell  
> \--m. Eddard STARK  
> \---Robb STARK  
> \---Sansa STARK  
> \---Arya STARK  
> \---Brandon STARK  
> \---Rickon STARK
> 
> \--Lysa TULLY (b. 266), Lady of the Eyrie  
> \--m. Jon ARRYN (is poisoned by Cersei ITTL as Lysa's relationship with Petyr is changed due to Lucas' survival)  
> \---Jasper ARRYN  
> \---Annalys ARRYN  
> \---Robert ARRYN (sickly, like his Great Uncle Edwyn)
> 
> \--(Two more sons who died in infancy)
> 
> \--Edmure TULLY (b. 273), Lord of Maidenpool (declared lord after the Rebellion leads to the banishment of House Mooton since they were the only house to refuse to come to their liege's call)  
> \--m. Abra Cox  
> \---Lucas TULLY  
> \---Catelyn TULLY
> 
>  
> 
> -Brynda TULLY (b. 240), Lady of Harrenhal  
> -m. Oswell WHENT (dies in Robert's Rebellion)
> 
> \--Arwell WHENT (b. 264)  
> \--m. Alyssa Terrick  
> \---Edwell WHENT  
> \---Oswell WHENT
> 
> \--Elain WHENT (b. 266)  
> \--m. Afon ROOTE  
> \---2 daughers & 1 son
> 
> \--Nerys WHENT (b. 269)  
> \--m. Tristan RYGER  
> \---2 sons
> 
> \--Luwell WHENT (b. 271 - d. 276) (died of the pox)
> 
> \--Hywell WHENT (b. 274)  
> \--m. Lyla LOLLISTON  
> \---3 daughters & 1 son
> 
>  
> 
> -Edwyn TULLY, Lord of Oldstones (b. 249 - d. 270)  
> -m. Perriane FREY (b. 249)
> 
> \--Ysolde TULLY (b. 268)  
> \--m. Lymond LYCHESTER  
> \---Edmyn LYCHESTER  
> \---Raymun LYCHESTER
> 
> \--Alyn TULLY (b. 271), Lord of Oldstones (unlike his father he is quite healthy and hale, well known on the Tourney circuit as the "Red Fish")  
> \--m. Zhoe BLANETREE  
> \---Zylla TULLY  
> \---Brynden TULLY  
> \---Walder TULLY


	5. Crystoff "Kitt" Tully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Five, before Kitt Tully competes as a mystery knight at Harrenhal, he has one night which he'll never forget.

**Crystoff "Kitt" Tully**  
  
Crystoff had waited until the sun had set before making his way through the Northern section of the encampment. Like the famous Ser Duncan the Tall he had encamped in a nearby wood under a strong oak tree by a little stream. If he was to begin his newly dubbed knighthood from his uncle in any other manner, Crystoff could hardly see any other way than in emulating one of his favorites he had grown up listening to. Though he camped alone with no Egg by his side, Crystoff felt he was in good company under the Oak tree. His father had forbidden him to come to the Tourney--saying it was best if they just stayed out of the "dragon snare" as he had called it. But Crystoff couldn't pass up the chance to meet with her, nor the opportunity to compete as a mystery knight. They had been separated for several moons now, getting by only with a letter or two to sustain them.  
  
There was a part of Crystoff's head which was chastising him for doing something so stupid as disobeying his father's expressed command, but for the love of his lady, Crystoff could forget honor and duty--for she was already a part of his family, even if their fathers wouldn't consider rearranging the betrothal agreements they had made for each of them.  
  
As he drew closer to the white pavilion with a grey direwolf running across it, Crystoff found himself speeding up into a near run--kicking up a few fireflies into the air as he did. He could almost feel her in his arms this moment. When he at long last came to the side of the pavilion he whistled the bird call they had established as their signal back in Winterfell when they wanted to find one another in its ancient godswood.  
  
A few mere moments passed until he saw the flap to the front of the pavilion open and saw her step out into the moonlight. Crystoff was stunned at the beauty of the sight and wished to cherish it for all eternity. She had grown some since he had last seen her. Before she had been on the edge of womanhood, slight of build and just coming into her looks, but now... here at Harrenhal she had blossomed with her first bloom. Along with the spring, Lyanna had become a woman grown. She was dressed in a loose-fitting shift, but in the moonlight her body could be seen through it in shadows. He felt himself grow excited to see her. Once again chastising himself into submission. They would be married before he took her maidenhood--he had made a solemn oath before both the old and the new gods to that effect, and that was one vow he intended to keep to.  
  
"Kitt!" whispered Lyanna furtively as she rushed into his arms quite eagerly. He must have grown as well, for he felt a little taller now than he had when they had last met.  
  
"You're growing a beard," noted Lyanna as she rubbed her hand across his newly growing whiskers  
  
"I don't have a squire to shave me. Don't you like it?" asked Crystoff, fearful that she'd find it too rough for the kissing games they had played in the godswood.  
  
After some careful consideration, she said, "Aye it suits your face."  
  
From inside the pavilion they heard someone scrunch around on a cot, and Lyanna grew silent and turned to look in the direction of the noise like a dog might at the sound of game rustling a few bushes. When it became obvious that no one was about to come out and disturb them, Crystoff offered for her to follow him back to his own encampment, which she did.  
  
As they were halfway across the field, Lyanna stopped to admire the swarm of fireflies that had taken flight at their approach to their resting places. Crystoff held her hand firmly in that instant, taking in the majestic beauty of the thousands of little lights that lit the dark field spotted with pavilions and tents.  
  
It was only once they had left the soft and slick wet grasses of the field and begun to tread the rough dirt of the wood that Crystoff notic ed Lyanna was barefoot, but she did not seem to mind.  
  
When he had brought her to the Oak Tree he was encamped under they nestled together between two large roots that cradled them like the warm embrace of a mother would her children. She rested her head upon his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm about her waist and held her close to him.  
  
"Tomorrow when you ride, you must challenge the knights from House Frey, House Haigh, and House Blount. One of my father's bannermen was grievously offended by their squires--they beat him till they drew some blood!"  
  
Crystoff felt her anger radiate off as he absorbed it like a sea sponge would.  
  
"I'll need a new shield and coat of arms" he sighed, as Lya then grinned.  
  
"I have just the thing," she said rather eagerly.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"Aye."  
  
"Then I shall do this boon for you, my lady," swore Crystoff solemnly.  
  
She nodded her head and then with a grin she lightly hit him and said, "Don't call me that."  
  
"Whatever you say, my lady," he teased.  
  
"I could take your armor and enter myself, you know. I'm very good on a horse," she reminded him.  
  
"Of course, but this would be your first time in an actual joust," stated Kitt, who held her tighter as the thoughts of her possibly flying off her horse and hitting the ground dead came unbidden to his mind.  
  
"I know, so you will do it so that I don't have to kick your ass as well for failing me," purred Lyanna as she snuggled closer to him.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," said Crystoff. He only hoped that he could keep his identity a secret for the entire tourney--House Haigh and House Frey were his father's bannermen, if he was discovered taking the cause of the Northman against them... his father would likely send a raven to the Dredfort asking if House Bolton still had any flaying knives laying around unused, himself.  
  
Lyanna and he though eased into a silence after that, with Crystoff listening to the frogs croaking softly by the river. It was such a gentle peaceful moment.  
  
"More anything Lya, I want this moment to last for forever," he whispered into her ear before gently kissing her forehead.  
  
"Aye... if only our entire lives could be lived here by this stream... there could be our great hall," she said pointing to a wide expanse between a grove of oaks.  
  
"With fish and berries at our whim," japed Crystoff.  
  
"Aye, I do admit that I like the taste of fish," purred Lyanna as she then kissed his neck hard and rough--her teeth lightly scraping across his skin as she did. She then rearranged herself so that she straddled him and began kissing up his neck until she got to his lips. Their tongues--experienced from the many games they played darted forth and caressed one another. Crystoff nearly lost himself in the moment until he felt Lyanna begin to grind against his body, and then his mind recalled himself and he broke off the kiss. Only to receive a displeased growl from his she-wolf.  
  
"Lya... we can't," he stated, his blue eyes meeting her grey ones. She narrowed them as if to challenge his statement and he countered with his own--he might be a fish, but he would not be baited from his vows so easily.  
  
Lyanna huffed discontentedly after it became clear to her that he wouldn't back down this time. She growled in aggravation.  
  
"I loathe this game we're playing, absolutely loathe it!" she pouted, biting her lip a little.  
  
 _Gods, I can't control myself when she does that..._  
  
"I hate it as much as you do. But our fathers--" he began.  
  
"Will never agree to it." she despaired.  
  
He hated to see her look sad and did the only thing he knew could cheer her up. Her lips were wetted and warm to his own. Her tongue was eager to pick up where they had left off, but he kept his mouth closed to hers, intending to keep the kiss as chaste as possible--though his breeches were near close to bursting with his desire to have her at this point.  
  
This time she broke off the kiss with yet another growl--he loved it when she growled.  
  
Her voice was especially low and guttural as she muttered, "You are mine!"  
  
"Aye, but you cannot be mine until we have said our vows," reminded Crystoff bitterly. He wanted to smack the tent over in his pants so badly--if only to get some relief.  
  
Lyanna gave him a wolfish smile before saying, "And you will. Ser Crystoff Tully, heir of Riverrun will keep his vows--for you would not be the man I love if you did not."  
  
But she then leaned in closer, really rubbing her body up next to his as she then whispered, "But tonight, Prince Duncan, Jenny will have what is rightfully hers."  
  
And Crystoff was lost, there was little he could do to resist her as she kissed his mouth hard and rough, dug her nails into his back and ground her sex into his.  
  
Come the morning she was gone, and he nearly thought their night--their first night together in that way--to have been a dream. But as he rose he found leaning against the tall oak where she had been was a shield, black with fireflies painted upon it.  
  
Crystoff smirked. He should have known it. The Firefly Knight he would be, fighting for his Lady Jenny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TULLY FAMILY TREE
> 
> Hoster TULLY  
> m. Minisa WHENT
> 
> -Crystoff "Kitt" TULLY  
> -m. Lyanna STARK  
> \--Kitt TULLY the Younger (OTL Robb Stark)  
> \--Ned TULLY (OTL Jon Snow)
> 
> -Lysa TULLY  
> -m. Jaime LANNISTER  
> \--Tommen LANNISTER (the pride of his parents; gold hair, blue eyes)  
> \--Gerion LANNISTER (is quite intelligent, Tyrion is his favorite uncle; red hair, green eyes)  
> \--Genna LANNISTER (her parents' little princess; Lannister in features)  
> \--Tywin LANNISTER (brash and argumentative, likes fighting; Tully in features)
> 
> -Edmure TULLY (war hero, squired with his Uncle Brynden during the Civil War, now an eligible bachelor)
> 
>  
> 
> STARK FAMILY TREE
> 
> Rickard STARK  
> m. Lyarra STARK
> 
> -Brandon STARK  
> -m. Barbrey RYSWELL  
> \--Cregan STARK (stillbirth)
> 
> -Eddard STARK  
> -m. Ashara DAYNE  
> \--Arya STARK  
> \--Brandon STARK  
> \--Rickon STARK
> 
> -Lyanna STARK (see TULLY TREE)
> 
> -Benjen STARK (war hero from the Civil War)


	6. Daemon Targaryen

******DAEMON TARGARYEN**  
  
He was far more nervous than he had ever been. Cousin Stannis, the man who had raised him since his birth, assured him that the King would not do anything in front of the court.  
  
As they lined up to enter the Throne Room and to be received in front of the entire court, the Stern Stag turned to him--likely saw the worry in Daemon's purple eyes as he had always been able to long after Daemon had learned to cast his face in a stern visage like Stannis, and assured him rather dryly, "My brother may be prone to rage, but he is ever conscious of being well-liked. There are enough old loyalists still alive he'd rather not make enemies of--especially at court."  
  
Daemon pulled at the uncomfortably high collar of his black silk doublet with a three-headed red dragon sewn onto it by Lady Mery, Stannis' wife, and let his worry slip from his stone face just once as he asked, "And in private?"  
  
His foster father grimaced slightly before turning front and admitting, "Do not seek out my brother in private unless you truly wish to know his thoughts of your family."  
  
Stannis was direct and to the point, that's what Daemon had always admired about his foster father. There never was anything unpredictable or questionable from him. He spoke directly of what he expected and minced very few words. Daemon knew well what the entire realm thought of his family. Mad, every one of them but his mother. His father, his brothers, his grandfather and great-uncle who'd broken their betrothals for the madness of love, and his great-great grandfather who had thought to impose harsh reforms against the realm. He'd been taught by old Maester Cressen these lessons duely, and grown to fear becoming like his family. His one hope was that he was secretly his mother's son--for Rhaella had been painted as the long suffering Queen Dowager, tied to a mad brother due to an old witch's prophesy, who had tortured, bit off parts of her flesh and scared her to impregnate her, when all she had ever done was love a handsome knight, the saintly Ser Bonifer. Ser Bonifer when he had trained Daemon had spoke very little of Daemon's mother, except that in her youth she'd been the Maiden made flesh, and was surely amongst her entourage up in the Seven Heavens. Daemon, never one to be extremely religious, simply wished that his mother was simply at rest and far from his accursed sire.  
  
"Don't worry Dae, if Robert gives you any hassle, I'll challenge him to a duel," assured Renly with a good-natured smile and a laugh on Daemon's left side.  
  
Despite himself, Daemon smiled at the Young Stag's attempt to ease his worries.  
  
"Renly," warned Stannis.  
  
"It would only be to first blood, and with how Robert's let himself--" started Renly with a scoff in his defense.  
  
"This is neither the time nor place--" interrupted Stannis, taking the role of parent to them both as he had always done at Storm's End, but he himself was stopped from completing his thought when the trumpets sounded.  
  
Daemon felt his heart stop, the old nightmares from his childhood returning. A dark demonic Stag with sharp antlers slaying a ruby red dragon in a river with its antlers and then charging for him. The only thing to calm him in that moment was a nod from Stannis, which allowed Daemon to collect himself and recall that though he may be a dragon, he had two stags to protect him should the demon Stag wish to take his head after all this time. The doors slowly began to open and Daemon felt his heart beating in his throat, making it somewhat difficult to breathe, but he assured himself that all he had to do was bow, kneel, and answer any of the King's questions. He wouldn't even look at the King, for fear of offending the Great Stag. He locked on his best stone face as he attempted to assuage his inner fears.  
  
 _I am four and ten namedays, why let me grow to nearly a man grown at all, if he truly wants me dead?_  
  
Why summon me to court only to have me dragged away in chains when he could have had me killed out of sight?  
  
Stannis and Renly wouldn't let him have me too.  
  
Rhaegar and Viserys are dead--they tried to take the crown, not me. I was only born a dragon, I never claimed to be one, and Stannis told me I don't look like Rhaegar too much...  
  
Daemon kept his head down and squarely at his feet. Walking behind Renly and Stannis, with Stannis' Stormlander entourage behind him.  
  
 _They were once the King's bannermen, mightn't they try and win favor with the king by stabbing me in the back? They wouldn't betray Stannis... would they?_  
  
Daemon saw that Stannis and Renly came to a stop, Daemon did much the same, and knelt as quickly as he saw their own legs move into that position against the gold-colored carpet leading up to the Iron Throne.  
  
Daemon heard the King's booming voice from up on high announce, "Brothers, so at long last you bring the last of the dragons to court..."  
  
"As you have commanded your grace," answered Stannis solemnly.  
  
"Aye, I commanded to see this last dragon, but all I see before me is an overgrown lizard with its tail tuck between its legs like a dog!" stated the King, and Daemon heard a good portion of the court laugh.  
  
Daemon saw Renly's closest fist clench slightly, and he felt relieved to see such a sight.  
  
"Stand, Daemon Targaryen, stand and let me look at you," commanded the King.  
  
Daemon shakily stood, still keeping his eyes glued to his black leather boots.  
  
"For fuck's sake, look at me boy!" roared the King, and Daemon with a gulp forced his eyes to look up. Slowly he saw the dais upon which the Iron throne stood, then the slow collection of swords which formed steps which climbed ever higher and higher until at long last Daemon stretched his neck up to see at the very top, looking down upon high, was the King.  
  
He gasped, not out of fear, but shock to see the demon stag that had plagued his nightmares and fears was not a powerfully muscled man, but instead a very fat one. This fat thing had been the slayer of his brother?  
  
"Don't gawk boy!" rumbled the King, and Daemon, averted his eyes once more.  
  
Even from afar, Daemon could see--if he squinted hard enough--that there appeared the remnants of a greater man, trapped beneath the fat and cloth of gold, just waiting for a dragon to tempt him to come out. The way the King's blue eyes flashed like the sea in a storm had spoken of it enough. Though this fat Stag might not be the Demon of the Trident anymore, the Demon of the Throne he most certainly was.  
  
"Have you wondered boy, why I have summoned you to court?" demanded the King who not a moment later charged "Answer me honestly, I'll know if you lie!"  
  
"A--aye your grace," answered Daemon attempting to steel his face to the stone mask which he was accustomed to wearing.  
  
"Your brother Viserys is dead... slain at his own wedding to a Tiger bride in Volantis. Talisa, I believe her name is."  
  
"That is a most commendable thing. My brother was a traitor and a pretender, your grace."  
  
The King continued, "Aye, that he was. And a poor pretender to boot--seeing as he upset the Elephants enough to get them to poison him at his own wedding."  
  
There were a few laughs in response to this, but the King did not let them finish as he then continued, "Tell me, are you a traitor, Daemon?"  
  
"No, your grace," answered Daemon firmly and stolidly, much more in grasp.  
  
"And you would fight to see a Stag King on this Iron Throne until your dying breath?" questioned the King.  
  
He spoke easily enough, knowing that to preserve the Demon Stag was to preserve his foster father, and he'd die for Stannis. And so he said, "Aye, your grace."  
  
"Then come forward then and swear to it."  
  
He then heard a little huff from on high, and Daemon quickly glanced to see the King stand, the early morning sun streaming in behind him from the glass window marvelously, making him appear as if he were the sun made flesh. The King then held out his fist with his many ringed fingers, and Daemon knew what the King wanted him to do.  
  
Slowly, Daemon approached the foot of the Iron Throne and then ascended the steep steps. As he rose he saw the Queen seated in a smaller throne to the King's left. She was a golden beauty decked out in scarlet and gold with emerald eyes staring at him.  
  
When the King's hand was in reach, Daemon took it and knelt as firmly as he could on the steep steps, and kissed the King's fat hand briefly as his oath of loyalty.  
  
"Good, you may return to my brothers, Lord Daemon Targaryen of Dragonstone and Cracklaw Point," dismissed the King with an oddly jovial laugh.  
  
Daemon descended the steps backwards as best he could, fearful that he might make one wrong step and go tumbling to the ground.  
  
"Have you ever wondered, Lord Targaryen about your name?" queried the King in an almost good humor.  
  
"Nay, your grace, I thought my mother named me upon her deathbed."  
  
"Hardly! The poor Queen Dowager, may her soul rest in peace, was in such labor with you, that Ser Willem Darry and your brother abandoned you both for dead. Tell me have you ever wondered about your mother's death?" prodded the King, though Daemon couldn't wonder at why he was doing this before all the court.  
  
"Lord Stannis told me she died and that was all. That was all I ever needed to know," answered Daemon as he thought Stannis might have.  
  
"Seven hells, he's as fucking hard as a stone, Stannis!" guffawed the King, followed by the rest of the court soon after, the King shouting over top to Daemon's foster father, "You have done our little lordling a disservice!"  
  
"If I have, your grace, it is only because I wished to have the young Lord Targaryen to remember his mother fondly," stated Stannis evenly and sternly.  
  
 _What? No! Not her too... please, no!_  
  
"Of course, of course. Your mother, named in honor for my dear grandmother, was left abandoned and in heavy labor when my brother took the castle with barely a fight. A storm had just ended the night before, and many considered both you and your mother lost. But then Stannis entered her bed chambers where she mistook him for our father, the late Lord Steffon. As I recall, Stannis, the poor Queen Dowager had been driven to madness from the experience--abandoned and robbed by the villainous Ser Willem Darry of even her own crown. She babbled on about having disappointed the Mad King by giving him yet another son instead of the daughter he had so desired, didn't she, Stannis?" spoke the King, and Daemon heard his foster father harrumph and look so ever slightly away.  
  
 _No... she wasn't mad... she wasn't mad!_  
  
"She made my brother swear to take care of you, and raise you like a son of his and then she died, without naming you." The King then paused in the telling of his tale for dramatic effect before continuing to its conclusion by stating, "Stannis brought you back to King's Landing, and I, Lord Targaryen, named you. I named you Daemon as a reminder. There have been a few of your family who've born the name--all of them pretenders of one crown or another. I named you Daemon, Lord Targaryen to remind you of the utter failures of those pretenders. I would advise you Lord Targaryen not to follow your namesakes and break your solemn vow to me. If you do you shall know my Fury as clearly as your mad brother knew my war hammer for taking my betrothed!"  
  
The King then dismissed them. Daemon wanted to collapse, though he didn't let his face show it--he couldn't let his face show it. He was alive... for now, and that would have to be enough, even if his image of his saintly mother was tattered for forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TARGARYEN FAMILY TREE
> 
> AERYS II TARGARYEN  
> m. Rhaella TARGARYEN
> 
> -Rhaegar TARGARYEN, Prince of Dragonstone  
> m. Elia MARTELL, Princess of Dorne  
> \--Rhaenys TARGARYEN  
> \--Aegon TARGARYEN
> 
> -Viserys TARGARYEN, the "Beggar King"  
> m. Talisa MAEGYR  
> \--no known issue
> 
> -Daemon TARGARYEN, Lord of Dragonstone, the "Stone Dragon"  
> m. Cassana BARATHEON  
> \--Rhaella TARGARYEN, a fiery woman with an interest in fighting  
> \--Stannis TARGARYEN, unlike his namesake he is a wild tempestuous boy  
> \--Mery TARGARYEN, a sweet and loving woman, well skilled in the arts
> 
>  
> 
> BARATHEON FAMILY TREE
> 
> Steffon BARATHEON, Lord of the Stormlands  
> m. Cassana ESTERMONT
> 
> -ROBERT I BARATHEON  
> -m. Cersei LANNISTER  
> \--(her bastard children, begotten by her twin brother Jaime LANNISTER)  
> \--Joffrey WATERS  
> \--Myrcella WATERS  
> \--m. Aegon BLACKFYRE  
> \---Aegon BLACKFYRE, ward to Daemon Targaryen, a serious boy  
> \--Tommen WATERS
> 
> -STANNIS I BARATHEON  
> -m. Mery MERTYNS  
> \--Cassana BARATHEON  
> \--m. Daemon TARGARYEN  
> \---(for their children, see the Targaryen family tree)  
> \--ORYS I BARATHEON  
> \--m. Arya STARK, the Warrior Princess of the North  
> \---Jon BARATHEON, the Black Prince
> 
> -Renly BARATHEON, Lord of Summerhall, and later Lord of the Stormlands  
> -m. Margaery TYRELL, she married him when he became Lord of the Stormlands  
> \--Steffon BARATHEON, Lord of Summerhall, their only child, sickly & suffers from greyscale  
> (also living at Storm's End, Loras Tyrell, sworn sword of Lady Margaery and refuses to be parted from his sweet sister)
> 
>  
> 
> Lords Paramount at the End of the War of the Night:
> 
> North: Jon Stark, Eddard & Robb Stark died during the War of the Night, leaving Robb's son Jon as the young Lord of Winterfell to be raised by his Aunt Sansa (married Benfred Tallhart) and his Uncle Rickon (notorious bachelor)  
> Riverlands: Edmure Tully, happily married to a bannerman's daughter who isn't named Frey  
> Vale: Robert Arryn, his mother was overthrown during the rebellion for putting her support behind the Blackfyre; he was subsequently warded to Lord Royce and fought in the War with honors, after having "grown out of his sickness" by sheer willpower  
> Westerlands: Tyrion Lannister  
> Iron Islands: Theon Greyjoy, after the end of the Last Blackfyre Rebellion he was installed to control the Islands; his daughter is betrothed to Jon Stark  
> Reach: Willas Tyrell (married a Florent)  
> Stormlands: Renly Baratheon  
> Dorne: Arianne Martell (married Andrey Dalt)


	7. Jonelle Snow

**JONELLE SNOW – A FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTER’S GIRL**  
  
It was hard keeping her eyes open. Snowflakes snapped at her and collected on her eyelashes, and she had to resist the urge to wipe them off with her fur cloak that had collected its own snow. Everything was white and beginning to become impossible to distinguish between. She had to keep walking, if she stopped now she’d fall and be buried in the seemingly impossible snow drifts. Whatever had possessed Bran and the Reeds to trudge out in this mess, Jonelle couldn’t understand, but she would find them, of that she was certain—she would find them.

 

A dark shape appeared at the bottom of her field of view and disappeared, causing Jonelle’s heart to race rather quickly with fear until she saw the shape again when she moved her arms. It was just her hand—her vision was just so blurry she’d nearly mistaken it as something wholly unattached to her—was she so cold and numb that she were losing that much of her senses? As if to answer the cold wind blew harder, brushing snowflakes in her face and blinding her once again. She would have to find shelter in a hollow, or make a rough lean-to again with the stakes and skins she’d brought with her.

 

She stopped and reached around to her bags where she kept her stakes tied to her packs, but found them missing. Panic seizing her she fumbled around with her one hand until she’d determined that the stakes were indeed gone. How had she not felt them slip out of the knots she’d tied them to? Was it that fucking cold? She brushed her hand against her lower back a few times to figure out the answer, only to have the motion barely register at all—and even then when she forcibly applied pressure. The cold grew worse. Hope drained out of her as she sank to her knees. She could roll herself in the skins, but risk being buried by the snow. As if to hit the point harder, the wind and the snow picked up. She knew at once that it was going to be pointless making for herself out here. She’d have to find something—somewhere. She pushed herself from her knees and staggered forward. She had to survive. She had to get warm.

 

“Ghost, to me!” called Jonelle, but she knew her voice hadn’t carried far, and Ghost had taken to journeying farther and farther from her while hunting. She was alone now.

 

Instead she stumbled over something hidden in the snow, falling forward so that everything went white. The shock of the cold against her face stunned her. She knew immediately that she needed to get up. With some effort Jonelle forced herself onto her side. Her legs felt so cold it was getting harder to move now. And then she realized that she was going to die here. How fitting for a Snow to die in the snow. Lady Catelyn would be satisfied over news of her at long last—presuming her body wasn’t found many years from now after Winter had ended and the snows melted.

 

_Gods, if I’m going to die like this, let me think on happy thoughts… not Lady Catelyn._

 

She thought of father, whom she’d last seen when he’d left Winterfell with the King. He’d told her her name, Myna, before saying they would speak more upon his return. It wasn’t a name she’d heard her father say before, ever, and Jonelle didn’t know how to feel about that. Father had survived King’s Landing thanks to Theon—the irony of her complaining of his overly casual hands on her body prompting Father to bring Theon with him and further saved when Theon caught Sansa scurrying in the halls the day they were to depart after returning from a brothel himself made Jonelle wonder if the Gods did have a sense of humor… a cruel vicious sense of humor if all she could think about were Lady Catelyn and Theon of all people. Simply add Sansa and her drive to be the better daughter to father in everything, and the trio would be complete. They’d plagued her life at Winterfell, and now it seems in death as well.

 

And then something changed in Jonelle’s blurry sight. A dark shape appeared before her. Jonelle moved her arms and felt their slow movement far from the height they’d need to create such a dark shape in front of her. And then the dark shape began to grow and shift, acquiring long brown hair and two grey eyes. It might have been just a trick of her mind, but she was a welcome sight to see as the rest of the world was a greyish-white.

 

“Little sister…” Jonelle said, tears welling up and freezing as they fell down her cheeks.

 

“What are you doing?” demanded Arya, who was dressed in the travel clothes Jonelle had last seen her sister in when she’d left Winterfell for the last time.

 

“I’m so sorry Arya…” moaned Jonelle.

 

“Sorry for what? You need to move now!”

 

“Please, I need to tell you—” begged Jonelle.

 

“Tell me what? That I was stupid to take my sword and kill a man with it? That’s what you’re supposed to do with a sword stupid! You stab—”

 

“—stab them with the pointy end,” finished Jonelle simultaneously with Arya, with a slight laugh, which did not do well to lift her spirits at all.

 

“And if I hadn’t given you my old sword?” asked Jonelle when the light moment had passed.

 

“You want to talk about this? Fine. You didn’t kill me. Do I have to repeat that slowly or do you think you’ve got a grasp on it?”

 

She nearly sobbed in response, “Arya…”

 

“Stop being like father! He already holds himself responsible too much, and you’re being just as stubborn as he is right now!” protested Arya, who then softened and said bluntly, “I’ve died, but that doesn’t mean you should too. Either of you.”

 

With a defeated sigh, Jonelle said, “Even if I wanted to live… there’s no way to survive this storm… not now…”

 

“That’s where you’re wrong, sister. Oh so very wrong.”

 

Then suddenly from very far off, Jonelle thought she heard a faint sound of someone yelling. Just a trick of her ears, and nothing more.

 

By now, everything about Arya had become completely blurry again, save for her piercing grey eyes.

 

“If you ever do something this stupid again, I’m letting you die,” growled Arya and Jonelle felt a brief touch of her sister’s lips against her forehead which Jonelle soon realized was a batch of snow that had fallen from her hood, Arya having disappeared once again in the flurry of the snow.

 

It wasn’t much later when another pair of eyes, this pair the color of honey brown appeared before her. They were the last thing she saw before everything turned to white.

 

***

  
He was on the trail now, his pack brother had been past here not long ago, and the scent of him lingered in the air. And then he felt it. His girl, she needed him. He had to hurry now. He could feel her freezing without her furs. He had to find her and protect her—warm her. He would find his pack brother later, all that mattered was her. As he ran the snow grew thicker, but still he pressed on, across rolling hills. He’d find her, he would. He ran for what felt like hours, and then he smelled her—faintly in the distance, but she wasn’t alone. No, there was the smell of horseflesh. The whickering of horses soon accompanied the smell, and other smells as well. Man, several of them.

 

His skins girl was in trouble, he needed to go to her. But just as he was about to rush and put himself between them and her, something within him told him to stop and stay still.

 

He could see them more clearly now—two of the men were carrying her to the horses, who continued their whickering unabated.

 

“Damn horses are spooked about something,” said another man, who hadn’t jumped down from his horse but instead had been calming the others.

 

“Likely something thought they might get an easy meal of her before we showed up,” said another, a much younger manpup.

 

“Then best we be leaving my lord—there’s no use in continuing to hunt in this foul weather. The gods were cruel to tempt us with such good weather earlier,” commented an old man also on his horse.

 

He remained silent and still, though his legs ached to run and snatch her from them, something telling him that it would be better to follow them. He didn’t know how he knew it but somehow the picture of the stone mancave where he and his pack had whelped came to him, and he knew that she was going to another like it. He didn’t know how he knew, but he trusted that he knew, and it would be best to follow and know which stone mancave so he and she could reunite later. And so he followed, the horses sensing him, even if the riders couldn’t see him in all the snow. They came to a wood and at the edge of the wood stood a mancave which flew a cloth with a great horned prey on it.

 

The name came to him like the commands had, and he knew where she was, and now even had a wood to hunt game in. Excitedly he ran and howled mutely.

  
***  
  
She awoke in a warm, dimly lit room expecting to see Ghost curled at her feet. The direwolf would lazily lift his head before repositioning himself in a manner where his legs were fully stretched out, sticking out over the edge of the bed as she was accustomed to seeing one of her pack—her brothers, sleep. For an instant she recalled sneaking into Robb’s bedroom when they were still quite small and scaring him by pouncing on him as he gave his little snores.

 

_I’ll never be that innocent again…_

 

To her great disappointment, her bed was empty of both Ghost and Robb. Ghost was out there in the snows, and Robb… gods she didn’t want to think what Robb was dealing with down south, fighting King Stannis’ war while Alys waited in Winterfell, waiting for him to return.

 

_At least he has father…_

 

That surprisingly comforted her, at least one of them could have him, gods knew Robb likely needed him now more than ever, but Jonelle felt the need to be near him once again, to hug him and be sure that he had and truly escaped King’s Landing alive. It had been torture waiting in Winterfell with Alys when the raven from the Queen had first proclaimed father dead, only for another from King Stannis to proclaim that raven false, with another letter from Father—one that Lady Catelyn had scooped up and hardly let out of her grasp.

 

A serving girl was soon enough checking in on her and scurried away just as soon as she’d appeared, no doubt to tell whomever had taken pity on her to bring her to… to too fine a chambder for one of her birth. She looked around the chamber properly now and saw beyond the bed and hearth to the carpeted floors and drawn curtains. Everything was soft and soothing… like a confinement chamber. That’s exactly where she was, in the confinement chamber of some lord’s holdfast.

 

The serving girl returned with a young man who dressed plainly in unadorned brown leather doublet, trousers, and boots, entering leaning on a cane. From the few wisps of hair upon his chin she reckoned him to be about Robb’s age, mayhaps a little older if his broad shoulders and stocky build were of any proof. He crossed the room with an obvious limp from a leg which seemed slightly twisted, not nearly as much as Bran’s were from his fall, but close enough that Jonelle could see he’d likely have that limp for the rest of his life. The cane’s grip was oddly cut so that little points came poking through between the fingers—likely for a better grip. The face was round but in no way plump, it was marked however with a scar that stretched across the left side of his face from his forehead to his chin. It was a fearful, twisted scar that marred his face to the point that Sansa likely wouldn’t have given him another glance. It was then however that Jonelle was drawn to his eyes which were the warmest pair of honey brown she’d ever seen… that she realized the next moment that she’d seen before.

 

“Y—you f—found me,” she stuttered, unaware of just how her tongue was want to trip in her mouth now until she’d spoken.

 

The man seemed taken aback for an instant, as if expecting her to have not spoken at all or to bombard him with questions she presumed.

 

When he’d recovered himself, he simply answered, “Aye, I did.”

 

“Whose lord do you serve?” asked Jonelle at first, having to put thought and effort into forcing her tongue to move how she wanted—which she never knew could be as exhausting work as it was.

 

A confused look passed the young man’s face before saying, “You are at Hornwood Castle.”

 

Jonelle recalled Hornwood… a brown bull moose on orange, with lands between Winterfell and the Boltons… ruled by an older man by the name of.. Lord Halys—no, Lord Halys had died in the war. Alys and Bran had talked endlessly about it when the raven had come, and his young son and heir, Daryn, had been sent home after an injury on the battlefield, defending Robb.

 

“Does Lord Hornwood know I am here? I wouldn’t want to… anger him,” she said at long last, arriving not at the words she liked, but likely the man servant might relate to.

 

The kindly young man’s eyes seemed to light up with an odd amusement before he answered, a decided inflection creeping in as he spoke that he’d likely kept out his voice before.

 

“Milord is aware and insisted on you being brought to these chambers, milady, if that’s what bothers milady?” he asked with the typical lilting Northern accent she’d heard all through Wintertown her entire life.

 

“Lord Hornwood is rather… kind, but I am no lady,” answered Jonelle automatically. Years of Lady Catelyn and Sansa saying she’d never be a lady no matter how well she stitched or prettily she sang with Sansa’s playing of the high harp would change that.

 

“Aren’t ye? Might’ve fooled me with that castle-forged blade ye were carryin’. Unless o’course you stole it,” he said, laying his inflection on rather thick.

 

“I didn’t steal it,” hissed Jonelle.

 

“Yer father’s a smithy then?” asked the young man, as if he knew she would say that next.

 

Not wishing to have her true identity known—even to Lord Hornwood’s serving man—widely, thinking of how she would have to leave Hornwood soon to continue her search for Bran and the Reeds who’d abducted him, Jonelle nodded her head in agreement and let any other questions as to her identity be answered just as vaguely. As for a name she said her name was Lyarra, the name of her grandmother, and left it at that.

 

“I’ll inform his lordship of your waking,” said the young man when he’d finished peppering her with questions, half of which she answered as vaguely as possible. Best to be a traveler passing through and not be noticed at all, just like in Winterfell. Having a fuss made over her had often ended badly for all involved, and this time Jonelle wouldn’t have that be true.

 

“Thank him for me…” she said.

 

“Dar—ys,” he said oddly as his can slipped and he nearly fell over. He re-emphasized it however when he’d stabilized himself once again, saying, “Darys.”

 

“Darys,” she echoed, and the young serving man bowed and exited.

 

Darys returned frequently to check on her as she recovered.

 

“Gods help me, is there more to this keep than this room? Sometimes I doubt it,” she complained one day, tired of being cooped up upon the maester’s orders.

 

“Oh aye, there’s the old North Tower. Climb up it and you have the whole wood at yer feet, deep and thick, and a sight to see with all the snow coverin’ the tops o’the trees,” said Darys.

 

“The last thing I want to see is more snow covering anything,” she grumbled, though despite herself she begrudgingly added, “Though it sounds a pretty sight to see.”

 

“Aye it is, especially in the pale light of a moon,” said Darys rather wistfully, and despite herself, Jonelle found herself wishing to see such a sight.

 

Each time he came to visit, Darys offered his lord’s apology at not being able to come himself to see her, but offered his lord’s warm greetings. Jonelle breathed a sigh of relief each time Darys said as much, fearing that Lord Hornwood might possibly recognize her from when Robb had gathered the banners at Winterfell, though all she recalled of the young future Lord of Hornwood from the time was a lanky frame with an orange doublet whose sleeves did not completely reach his wrists.

 

As the days passed and her senses returned to her, she found the tips of her ears had turned black with frostbite, and the numbness at the tip of her nose likely indicated that in the weeks to come it would soon follow. Darys said she was lucky to be alive regardless, “And besides, it won’t harm yer beauty any,” he said almost casually.

 

“Excuse me?” she asked, not that she’d cared much how she looked as she’d always preferred Robb’s old hand-offs.

 

Darys stammered as if embarrassed to say much more, “I… I meant nothing by it, Lyarra, but ‘tis true nonetheless.”

 

It was then that Jonelle knew she had to leave as soon as the opportunity afforded itself. Darys was kind, and she liked to sit and talk with him, though she suspected he laid on the Wintertown inflection just a bit much than was natural for him. If—when she found Bran again, she might like to return to the Hornwood lands and try again. T’would be a good enough match for her if she ever needed one—not likely if Alys had anything to say about that—but more than that she found the idea of seeing Darys again to be agreeable.

 

She snuck out in the middle of a moonless night, and though she was sorely tempted to take a horse, overall Jonelle felt wrong to misuse Lord Horwood’s hospitality as such, and so she snuck up to the parapets and prepared herself a rope along a particularly long and abandoned stretch of it. In the woods she heard a howl ring out—even though she knew only she could hear it, she knew it was Ghost calling to her, and her blood rose up as she knew she was once again on the trail to find her pack brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel I should mention that in each incarnation of Jon Snow I choose a different set of theoretical parents for him, or in this case her. Though I believe R+L=J as the most likely outcome, I find one can only write so many "Jon you aren't my/Ned's son" scenes before they start to feel rather well-worn, tired and a bit contrite. So I purposely advertized which parentage is this version's: Ned + Fisherman's Daughter, as you can tell from the title at the top of the chapter, even though it only has minor issues with the plot.
> 
> This chapter has been a long time coming. I originally imagined it over a year ago, but decided to put off writing it for some time. Since then, the chapter has evolved beyond what I originally imagined some of the back story to be, but felt right as I was writing this out. In any case I hoped you enjoyed this little taste of Jonelle Snow and I hope to have another genderbend chapter out again before the end of the year. If there's any particular character you're interested in seeing me attempt, please do leave them in the comments.
> 
> HOUSE STARK OF WINTERFELL  
> at the turn of the Century  
> Sworn by Lord Eddard to King Stannis Baratheon, they and the Tullys form a powerblock which threatens to tear the Seven Kingdoms in half. The latest news reports that Lady Lysa Arryn, goodsister to Lord Eddard by his marriage to Lady Catelyn, has pledged her knights of the Vale in support of King Stannis with rumors that she has married in secret.
> 
> Eddard STARK, Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North, former Hand to King ROBERT I Baratheon, the First of His Name, current Master of Laws to King Stannis  
> m. Catelyn TULLY, Lady of Winterfell, currently expecting her sixth "pup" as it were  
> -Robb STARK, heir to Winterfell, acted as Lord of Winterfell when his father was in King's Landing  
> -m. Alys KARSTARK, Robb is sent home by Ned after Tywin Lannister is defeated in the field to marry Alys and take control of Winterfell since Bran has gone missing; Robb is rather upset to find his mother has chased Jonelle away  
> \--Edwyle STARK (newborn son)  
> -Sansa STARK, eldest daughter  
> -bet. Theon GREYJOY (to help further bind Theon to their side), with Theon still in a living Lord Stark's hands and Stannis more easily proclaimed King (and the Iron Fleet thinking better of facing the man who destroyed them before), Balon decided that it was best to sack the Reach while Renly strolled up leisurely to King's Landing  
> -Arya STARK (presumed dead due to a botched escape from King's Landing on Ned's part, actually living and undergoing much of her canon story)  
> -Bran STARK (on his way North with Meera and Jojen REED)  
> -Rickon STARK (happy to have his family back at Winterfell, quite happy)
> 
> s.r. Fisherman's Daughter  
> -Jonelle SNOW (she's of interest to Lord Daryn HORNWOOD, which upsets his lady mother)


	8. Lollar Stokeworth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Eight: Lollar Stokeworth drinks with his brother of the battlefield, Bronn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit when I first imagined this chapter it didn't quite go like this. But in the two years since I started this series, I got stuck on the Lollys genderswap... and here, at long last I finished it. I'm not going to say anyone asked for this, but this was an interesting writing exercise for me to engage in. Now maybe I can get to that list of other genderswapped characters that people want to see, like Petra Baelish.

**LOLLAR**  
  
The swaggering sellsword sat down and placed an empty wine goblet in front of Lollar. Bronn then took up the flagon from the table and began to fill Lollar’s goblet as he concluded, “So what I’m saying, is that if you want to be taken seriously as a lord, you got to throw your weight around a bit. No offense intended, of course, Lolly.”

 

Lollar was hardly offended. He had been hefty all his life and while his mother had sighed at his tendency to have a pouch even when he was in the midst of training as the King’s squire during the Greyjoy rebellion, it only cause Lollar any trouble when he had nothing to train for and hence grew rounder. Since Stannis had been routed by Lord Tywin and Lollar had proven his worth coming to the defense of King’s Landing, he’d had little to train for, and as such his pouch which had shrunk to its smallest size yet was now beginning to regain some of its girth once again. This however was something that he hoped regular goes in the practice yard might solve, and as such had sought out a sellsword willing to train with him. Bronn had been eager to look for some other employment since departing Lord Tyrion’s employ, and had accepted the position with a few stipulations as to his payment being larger than Mother would have approved for such a position, but then again, Bronn proved he was rather skilled as a sellsword, and they’d fought together at the Battle of the Blackwater. In some ways Lollar wondered if this might not be what having a brother might be like.  
 

“But Mother is Lady Stokeworth,” countered Lollar, automatically.  
  
Bronn had an answer for this, “For now, but she is getting on in years. How many winters has she seen now? Seven? Seven is a holy number. Best to die when one is holy than to outlive one’s welcome, I’d say.”

  
That was something… mother had always said Stokeworths kept the Faith. Their words were… their words were… he couldn’t remember his own house words, and he was expected to be Lord Stokeworth. Gods, what was he to do? Sometimes he wondered if he had been born a girl, then he’d needn’t to have concerned himself with anything. Then there’d have been no problems. He could have been wed to some lord and not had to care a fig about tithes and… uh… um… taxes, and such things.

 

_Proud to be Faithful._

 

The words came to him in mother’s voice at long last, shaming himself for being such a dunderhead, as she’d always called him.

  
He was an oaf of a man his mother always said, and he knew it to be true. The maester had taught him his letters well enough, but he’d always struggled with sums—so he hadn’t bothered with them. His sister Falyse was better with them, and Lollar saw little reason to motivate himself to surpass her ability when she offered her services as a dutiful sister to manage the estate. Mother said that he ought to, as Lord Stokeworth, but Lollar had had enough of his mother’s advice to last a lifetime. As a boy, he’d been his mother’s dearest child, doted on and loved far too much as his deceased father’s only male heir immediately upon birth. It wasn’t until later as he’d struggled with his letters and mixed up his sums that his mother, Lady Tanda Stokeworth began to grow ever more critical of Lollar. Lollar though tried hard not to care for all of this, and he found relieve in the amount of energy he put into worrying in a single escape. Ever since he’d been put out to squire, Lollar had found only one love, and that was fighting. It mattered not whether he could do sums or struggled to read, put a sword in his hand and he could hit and slash whatever he liked. It didn’t matter that he was a no good dunderhead. Foes on the battlefield cared little if you could do sums or anything like that. Sure, he wasn’t the best fighter in all of Westeros—that was King Robert—but he imagined himself to be greater than Ser Arthur Dayne as he fought off straw men and sparring partners, if only to live the dream that he might one day live to see another war and actually be old enough to prove himself of some use to his mother and people. Ruling was hard and too often Lollar felt uncomfortable making decisions, even when the decision could only come from him. It was in moments like these that Lollar depended upon his sweet sister, all the more, and Falyse, kind as she ever was, happily obliged.  
  
Falyse was one of the few who had ever been kind or even the least bit helpful to him. And in return for her help, he promised her that he’d never force her to leave Stokeworth or marry where she did not want to—to mother’s chagrin. Ser Birch had tried to woo Falyse’s hand in marriage a few namedays ago, but Lollar had chased him off one night when he found Falyse crying after arguing with Ser Birch. It had been one of his best moments, and was truly one Lollar cherished.   
  
He hadn’t been around other boys until he was of age to squire, and mother had found him an excellent position she’d boasted, as the king’s own squire. The King she said was eager to form new alliances with his new bannermen, and given that Stokeworth was wealthy in lands and the grain and vegetables it provided for King’s Landing, it was only natural that the king should consider having him as his squire. This however had gone in one ear and gotten lost trying to escape out the other at the time when Lollar had been enjoying his favorite dish of kidney pie. It wasn’t until sometime after he’d been introduced to the gruff King, and messed up scrubbing his armor clean that Lollar had wondered why the King kept him as a squire instead of jettisoning him and ending the embarrassing situation for them both. The King had preferred to simply hit Lollar over the head and tell him to “do it again and it better be bloody right this time!” often muttering something about penance and Lord Arryn afterwards.

 

And then, serendipitously, his mother’s words had found their way back to his conscious thoughts instead of out his other ear, and Lollar nodded at the acknowledged thought and did things over again. His head was bruised by the time he got whatever it is he had gotten wrong, right, but eventually he did get it right—that was the important thing. It simply became the arrangement that was held by the King and Lollar in the Crownlands, and later when the war came into the Riverlands as well. As much as the King hit him though, he seemed somewhat gruffly appreciative of Lollar’s abilities. Fighting required little thinking. To be sure there were great military minds who could say some of the best knights practiced long and hard to be half so ready for a war as Lollar did in those days.

 

“I wouldn’t want her to miss being holy… mother always was faithful,” echoed Lollar.

 

Bronn smiled as he refilled Lollar’s cup with wine, “Exactly my point Lolly. Exactly my point. And then, you’d be lord of Stokeworth, and your sister’s hand in marriage would be yours to give.”

 

“We’d be brothers then,” stated Lollar blatantly before adding on, “I’ve never had a brother.”

 

“I had several, all of them worse than the last, but I wouldn’t be your brother Lolly.”

 

“You wouldn’t?” asked Lollar, confused at this contradiction. That was how it worked, wasn’t it? If a man married your sister, he became your brother. Mother always said that was so, but then again, mother was old as Bronn said.

 

Bronn who had finished filling his own goblet now leaned back in his chair and calmly explained to the perplexed Lollar, “No, I’d be something even better. I’d be your _goodbrother_. And what’s a brother compared to a _good_ brother? Why, it even has good in its name, it must be better.”

 

Just then Lollar remembered that when brothers and sisters got married they often left the castle to establish a home of their own in another castle elsewhere. Lollar felt himself get sick. Who would do his sums if Falyse went away with Bronn? He had to be sure that Falyse would stay. He blurted out rather panicked, “Falyse will still stay here, though, to help me with my sums.”

 

Bronn assured Lollar with a smile after taking a sip from his wine, “I wouldn’t dream of separating her from her dearly beloved little brother.”

 

Lollar nodded his head dully, assured that Bronn wouldn’t take Falyse away from Stokeworth and leave him puzzled as numbers darted about the page.

 

“You’ve hardly touched your wine, Lolly, drink up,” said Bronn.

 

“I’m not thirsty,” said Lollar after he placed his goblet back down on the table.

 

Bronn leaned forward in his chair and said conspiratorially, “Tell you what, Lolly, why don’t we toast—to the health of your mother.”

 

Lollar couldn’t not wish good health for mother, so he took the goblet up in his hand from the oak table and held out to meet Bronn’s own goblet. He was about to take a drink when a scream was heard followed by a loud banging as something large fell down the steps from outside the solar where they were. Lollar stopped from drinking, taking a moment to recognize that scream.

 

“M—mother?” asked Lollar.

 

The next moment someone had grabbed his hand which still held the goblet and was forcing it to his face. Surprised, Lollar turned to see Bronn now standing almost atop him, determinedly forcing the goblet to Lollar’s fat face and trying to use the edge of the goblet to pry open Lollar’s lips.

 

Bronn was adamant, “Drink up, Lolly, we wouldn’t want to waste such good wine, now would we?”

 

Lollar held his mouth tightly closed and as King Robert had taught him of how to get out of multiple beatings, he gave the sellsword a well-placed kick which took the sellsword by surprise, caused him recoil in pain, drop the goblet, and fall to the ground in a prolonged instant.

 

“That’s it boy, now take the advantage while he’s down!” shouted a voice which sounded very much like the departed King.

 

“It’s not chivalrous!” countered a voice very much like mother’s.

 

“Chivalry will kill you in a melee boy!” shouted back King Robert.

 

Not having a sword, Lollar grabbed the first thing available to him as Bronn tried rising back onto his knees to recover from the blow, which was Bronn’s chair. With a grunt, Lollar lifted it and brought the oak furniture down on Bronn, knocking him once again to the floor with a groan. Lollar was about to get in another swing when he felt Bronn’s hands grab at his ankles.

 

“Don’t get distracted, lad! He’ll take you down if you let him. Finish him!” roared the dead King in Lollar’s head.

 

And so Lollar swung and swung and swung, blood and sweat flying everywhere. Eventually the chair became too heavy for Lollar to hold and so he dropped it on top of the now motionless Bronn. Lollar then felt his knees give way as he fell to the floor himself, suddenly becoming aware of how woefully out of shape he was now, that he was gasping for breath. He stayed there for what felt like an hour, but was most likely some shorter time frame than that, Lollar didn’t know how much, nor did he care very much right now. Nor did he care to look up from the slowly expanding blood puddle on the marble floor—in fact he was fascinated by it. The door to the solar opened and the padding of silk slippers were heard across the marble, and still Lollar did not look up from the swirling red patterns forming in the nearly invisible crevices of the marble.

 

“Bronn! I did it, we’re free! We’re free to wed!” called a voice that Lollar recognized. He turned to see his sister as her face was caught between joy and horror. She screamed in the next instant.

 

“Y—you freak! You fat freak! You murdered him! You murdered him!” shouted Falyse as Lollar managed to push himself up into a mostly sitting position. It’d take a lot more of his returning energy to actually stand.

 

Falyse though then began to rush at him, her hands unable to decide whether to claw him or punch him. Lollar watched, in near acceptance of the fate that would arrive in the next instant, too weak to defend himself.

 

That was when her slipper skidded at the blood puddle. She was falling backwards in the next instant, her head hitting the marble with a definite crack as Lollar watch, his mouth open as his panting slowed.

 

The solar remained in that fashion until several minutes later when Lollar had finally recovered his energy enough to stand. He hobbled over to his sister’s body then, sprawled upon the floor as it had fallen. He nudged her side with his boot.

 

“Falyse… you’ll still help me with my sums, won’t you?” he asked weakly, but he received no response, and a terror set in on Lollar as the swirls of blood began to take shape as numbers.


	9. The First Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Those of Targaryen blood sometimes are born with the ability, like their dragons, to switch between being male and female. Robert discovers he's inherited this ability by accident and uses it as part of a jape on poor Ned. NSFW.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little different than the previous ones, where the person was always born a different gender and how that effects the world of ASOIAF. However I felt after writing this one shot for a prompt on Alternate History . com that it belonged more in this collection than in my drabbles collection, due to the subject matter.

**The First Time**

  
The steps outside Robert's tower rooms was dark, but Eddard's eyes had grown accustomed to the dark by this point. He raised his fist to knock at the door, which he did thrice.  
  
"Robert?" he called, hoping his friend would answer from his room. Robert had been sick ever since he had come back from that brothel on the outskirts of Moontown, a small village which like Wintertown swelled with smallfolk in the depths of winter. Robert had tried to convince Eddard to come, saying that the Vale Knights had assured him of having a good time with Magi, but Eddard didn't want to simply sleep with a whore to say he'd slept with a woman.  
  
An odd moan came from within. It sounded like a woman's. Eddard's eyes narrowed. He might have only seen six and ten namedays, but he could quite quickly figure out what Robert was doing. All this time while he and Jon had been worried sick about whether Robert was hale or not, with the maester tittering away that it was simply only a cold and that sleep would do him good, and Robert nowhere to be seen for days, and all this time Robert had snuck his whore back into the Gates of the Moon so he might sleep with her? The nerve of him!  
  
Eddard didn't wait for Robert to open the door, he kicked it open forcefully causing the prostitute to gasp and sit up in the bed as he did so. Eddard glared at her, as though it were all her fault for Robert causing Eddard and Jon to worry for days. It took him a moment to realize that Robert wasn't in the bed with her, and a quick glance about the chambers confirmed Robert wasn't anywhere to be found.  
  
"N--n--ned!" quivered the whore, clearly startled.  
  
"Where is he?" demanded Eddard, beginning to worry once again, which only fueled his anger.  
  
"Where's who?" asked the girl, clearly confused.  
  
"Robert, the man you slept with."  
  
Gods, had Robert been so drunk he hadn't said who he was? Well, actually that might have been smart of him... for once.  
  
"What do you mean--" began the whore, but Eddard wouldn't let her finish.  
  
Eddard snarled as he grabbed her by the wrist, causing her to flinch. "Don't play dumb with me! You just called me Ned. Only a handful of people call me that, and you are certainly not one of them!"  
  
"Ow! Seven Hells, when did you get so strong? Ned, if this is some kind of jape--"  
  
"Jape? Is that what you think this is?! Tell me what you did with him. That's all I want to know." Eddard breathed deeply, trying to calm himself, even offering, "And then I'll see you out of the castle. No one need know you were here."  
  
Eddard took yet another deep breath. He needed to keep his anger in check. But then his mind began suggesting some of the possible scenarios: What if this whore had been an agent of some Stormlord who wanted to take Robert hostage? Some trap designed to snare him out into the open?  
  
Gods, and I let him go to that brothel alone. Idiot.  
  
"I didn't do anything with him," responded the girl indignantly. And now that Eddard got a closer look at her, she did seem rather young, within a year of his age, if he was any judge. Mayhaps she'd been forced into this profession for some reason. She was raven haired and blue eyed. In fact, the eyes were her best feature and captivated Ned the more he looked at her. And the more he looked at them the more he found them to be rather familiar to him, but he couldn't place where he'd seen them before. She was rather pretty--not as a beauty to be sung about by bards, but in a wind-tossed, rough, and spirited manner. Looking further, Ned saw the girl was dressed in Robert's shift which was yellow dyed cloth embroidered with the prancing black stag of House Baratheon and was so large it hung on her like a tent and exposed a shoulder and the beginning of what promised to be her ample bosom. This caused him to scowl further and grip her wrist more tightly.  
  
"Didn't do anything with him? When you're dressed in his shift?! A mummer's farce is what that is."  
  
Eddard let go of the girl's wrist and began to look about the room for her clothes that she must have discarded somewhere before crawling into bed with Robert. But all Eddard could find was what looked to be Robert's dirty clothes strewn about the floor, waiting for the servants to pick up and wash.  
  
"His shift?"   
  
Eddard gave up searching and glared once again at the girl.  
  
"Where are your clothes?"  
  
"On the floor."  
  
At last the girl was being somewhat helpful. Now if only she could say where Robert had gone.  
  
"They're not there, I just looked."  
  
"Of course they're bloody well there! I put them there last night!"  
  
"Well they're not there now." Eddard sighed, tired of this mummer's farce. He continued, "I'll get you clothes. Strip."  
  
"Strip?! I'd like to see you try and make me!" she responded indignantly, crossing her arms stubbornly.  
  
"You're not leaving this castle with that shift. I'll leave the room if you've suddenly found what little modesty you have left, but I will be back with clothes shortly, and then you will tell me where Robert is!" declared Eddard as he left the room.  
  
\---  
  
Maddy had to be convinced to lend a dress to Eddard, but he managed to leave her cramped quarters with that and a pair of boots for the girl to trudge through the snows in. He stopped briefly by his chambers to wrap the simple woolen dress in a spare cloak of his that the girl would wear as he escorted her back to the brothel she came from. He wasn't about to toss her out into the snows unprotected from the howling winds of the Vale, even though she was likely more used to them than he.  
  
He was surprised to re-enter the room to discover that she had in fact stripped herself of the shift and was now standing naked and staring at herself in the large Myrish glass which stood alone in its wooden frame. Her hands ran over her body as though it were a stranger to her, which was odd, but then again she likely had never seen a Myrish glass or herself before. Ned had never seen a woman naked before--at least not entirely. Robert had once convinced him when they'd been young boys to sneak to the brothel where they'd watched through a crack in the wall as a whore and a man went at it. He'd only seen the whore's backside before Robert had pushed him out of the way saying he'd had his turn. Eddard had felt as though he'd done something wrong and he shouldn't have been watching after that, and avoided future trips that Robert had been keen to try and convince him to go on.  
  
But now, as the girl turned he was allowed to see a woman completely naked in the front, which caused a stirring in his groin that he was almost ashamed to admit. Thankfully the cloak he'd brought was covering his front enough for the time being.  
  
"Ned, I think--" she started, but Eddard turned and placed the cloaked wrapped dress upon the unkempt bed and placed the boots at its foot. He didn't turn around, not wishing to let the girl know she had gotten to him.  
  
He cut in simply, "I shall wait in the sitting room. You will dress and then you will tell me what happened to Robert."  
  
And before anything else could happen Ned hurried to the side of the chambers where chairs and a table had been placed, and were covered with books that Jon had given for Robert to read, but he had never bothered. In actuality there was nowhere to sit, but Ned needed the distance from that girl at this moment. He needed to stop his mind from imagining that scene with the naked whore Robert had shown him as a boy. Especially as the whore was starting to look rather like this girl, and he the man.  
  
However the fates weren't about to let that happen. She had crossed the chamber and grabbed him by his arm to make him face her. He resisted slightly, but she persisted and had her way in turning him to face her in the end.  
  
"What are you--oh..."  
  
A silence hung in the air between them as Ned looked slightly down at the just a hair shorter girl. She had discovered his reasons, and he felt his cheeks grow rather warm while she simply laughed. He noticed as she gave a full-bellied laugh that she had all her teeth still and they looked well taken care of. Odd for one of the smallfolk.  
  
"Do you find me... attractive, Ned?" teased the whore. And then a sudden gleam appeared in her eyes, a mischievous, wicked, and rather excited gleam.  
  
"Do you know where Robert is?" he asked, hoping that bit of cold water would douse the situation. But alas, like the whore she was, the mention of another man's name did not dissuade her, and her damnably familiar smirk.  
  
"Oh... he... had to go away for a time... gave me some excuse and then... uhh... left me here."  
  
Finally some truth from the wench.  
  
"Did he say where?"  
  
"He might... but you're... going to have to... pay me for that information... and I don't mean with coin," she said with an almost wicked smile. One which demanded it be kissed. He tried desperately to think of Winterfell, but that only brought images of him and the girl in his father's bed. His mind was clearly working against him.  
  
For some reason she sounded like she was fumbling with the part--no doubt it was part of her whore's trick to bring around shy reluctant young men--which he wasn't at all, of course. He could go to the brothels and have a whore if he wanted... but it was wrong to enjoy a woman before marriage. After all, it might lead to a bastard.  
  
"Don't you want to know what happened to Robert?" she asked coyly, this time leaning in and managing to place her head upon his shoulder and wrap her arms around his body, with her hands wandering down... far too down for Eddard's comfort.  
  
"Tell me, or I'll... I'll... I'll throw you out without those clothes I brought," he threatened, poorly. Why was she causing him to stutter like this? He was trying to keep her hands away from sneaking beneath his breeches. He gasped when he finally failed as she grabbed him and squeezed.  
  
She whispered "Oh, you wouldn't do that to a poor defenseless woman... not you, Ned."  
  
"And how would you know that?" he rounded, trying to sound gruff, but he was too far gone now, even if he didn't want to recognize it.  
  
"I just do," she said before going in for a kiss, a long deep kiss which broke through the last of Eddard's inhibitions. Clothes came off in a frantic, awkward jumble as they tumbled towards the bed and began the first fumble of several rounds that night.  
  
\---  
  
Jon Arryn sighed as he sat down to prepare to write two missives personally--one to Storm's End and the other to Winterfell. He didn't trust his maester to write them for the nonce, as the entire realm did not need to hear of what had happened beneath his roof--at least not just yet. That it had come to this, Jon never would have suspected, but it had, and there was nothing to do but inform Steffon and Rickard of their children's activities. Steffon would be proud to hear that Robert had inherited his grandmother's family's ability, and had circumstances been different, likely would have used it as a bargaining chip to quell the King about marrying the Prince to someone of dragonblood, but that couldn't happen now. No, Ned had done the honorable thing when Robert had been unable to transform back--a sign well known in Targaryen history for being pregnant--and married, without anyone's permission. Hence why Jon did not look forward to his task. Rickard might be pleased. Though he had wanted his daughter to wed Robert, he still had one child wed to the heir of Storm's End.  
  
Apparently it had been some jape that Robert had had the idea of after discovering his grandmother's latent ability on accident. Ned had walked in on him and Robert had seen how attracted he'd been to his womanly form and been struck with the idea of taking the stuffing out of Ned for not joining him on some misadventure or other. That it had ended in a child being conceived, well that had been unintentional, but Robert was taking the thought of motherhood in stride, imagining a son to spar with. The only complaint Robert gave was it meant he had to stay in his womanly form for nine moons until the babe was born and give up that time in the practice yard. Any excuse though to eat more food and be doted on, pleased Robert immensely, so that more than made up for it.  
  
Ned had been unreachable for nearly a moon, keeping to himself and walking about the turrets and staring down at the ground, as though he considered jumping from them at times. Jon had walked with him a few times, saying nothing--feeling as though the boy merely needed his presence. On some of those walks, he'd feared that Robert had broken something inside of Ned, leaving him a shallow husk of the boy he'd been--something Ned never showed in front of Robert, but Jon worried might be the truth of things. In a concerned attempt to rescue Ned from his thoughts, he left The Private Entries and Record of the Life and Times of Lord Rodrik Arryn, his own ancestor who had had to deal with his Targaryen wife's own ability. Jon hoped that in those pages, Ned could find something to console whatever it was he was going through, but it seemed the only thing that had turned him around was when Robert had announced the pregnancy. A new interest in life was returned to the quiet boy, an interest that Jon feared had more to do with his sense of duty overriding all else--including his own emotions.  
  
But that was a problem to be solved another day. Now what in the name of the Seven Hells was he to tell Rickard and Steffon?


End file.
